"I am sick to my stomach." she was laying on her bed like a paraplegic. The wind outside rolled and tumbled through the tree branches, tousling the leaves like locks of hair. He had said trees could communicate with one another, and she had recalled that they also had heartbeats. It made her a little sick, thinking about how in her grandparents yard, there had been two trees called Adam and Eve. Adam had been struck down by a storm, and so Eve stood alone on the yard. That hurt her to think about deeply so she walked over the memory like it was a puddle instead of an ocean. A smile did not break out over her body at the thought of him, like it had with the boy. she wondered if that meant it would be a healthy relationship, one in which she was not so attached. Perhaps it would be good to be with someone who she was not ecstatic about.
She remembered the boy in her car, aching against her mouth and sweating. the boy had whispered something, mumbled it like it was dribbling from his lips like rain from the sky. his hands had been shaking with rhythm of panic.
This also hurt to think of so she hid away and looked at the plants on the windowsill. She put on some music he'd told her to listen to. She remembered how he'd lit up at the music. she wished she could love someone like how he loved the music. she felt it was near impossible to love anything that deeply again. It hurt too much. It felt like a toothache. Her grandfather loving God, her grandmother loving her family, him loving the music, her loving the boy. Sickened, she got up, turned off the music. She pulled out her guitar, and she played as the weed hacker buzzed and hummed like machine gun fire outside.
Now she remembered the Woodstock movie they had watched on his bed. Hendrix with his blasphemous national anthem, mouth gaping open like the notes were flying from his throat instead of the guitar. That had hurt her too. Perhaps she needed thicker skin. Skin that could take bullet holes and the whistle of bombs.
He'd said she was weird so many times. He'd placed his hand on her head like she was a puppy and proclaimed her oddness into the music surrounding them. He had said she was enticing, on the bed when he had wrapped himself around her and breathed against her hair. She had never felt this kind of contact without being fully charged with love. It felt good. it felt flimsy.
but now. She got high with him. so high she felt her vision combine before her into a foam. She thought, as she lay on his bed in that whirlpool panic, that she wanted the feeling to dissipate, to swarm into a drain and chug down the pipes. She stared down at the blanket he would rearrange every time it became crumpled. It was a white and blue plaid. she could see the pilling , the fibers woven together magnetically transfixed into round knots. he put on fantastic planet and gave her some fried chicken. she did not like fried chicken. she put the food in her mouth, and chewed. she did not know how to swallow. so she took a sip of water and coughed. it became aggressively ridiculous to her that she was in that room with him, watching this movie on his bed, him in the chair eating a leg. she wondered if it would be better if she loved him. and then she realized that because she did not love him, she no longer liked him. she became exasperated with herself, and the lonely longing for connection that had pushed her into this experience with him.
he had tasted her. she had thought of having sex with him. as he got into the bed with her she realized he might be hoping for sex and she became revolted. she did not want him to touch her or arouse her anymore. she became disgusted by the idea of having sex and so she stared straight at the red eyed aliens arguing in French. it was a good movie. she became mad that she was high at that moment. she wished she was no longer high so she would not be realizing the hurt and pain that had chased her to his bed. she wished she could enjoy the pleasure he might give her without thinking about loving him. but no, even if he could give that pleasure, it would not be good to her. it would not be lovely. she did not want him to see her body because he could not see her being. he did not love her, no matter the hints he gave at that being the case.
how could she have given something so precious to someone who did not wholly unconditionally love her. she thought about how clean he was, and how he had said nothing she said could be evil. she thought about how fastidious he was about his hair. she thought about the way he lit up when he talked about music. she wanted to love him. but she could not be vulnerable with him. and so she could not love him.
