The Times He Listened

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by junyper

by junyper

He was the one who was scared when the rubber ball soared into the air and over the fence. In that quick moment of shocked silence, we could hear it smack onto the ground in the neighbor's yard. I can recall his expression; wide eyes as big as plates and his tiny hand clamped over his mouth. As he shuffled from one foot to the other, it was apparent he was the one who was scared about getting in trouble.

Of course I was the one who told him to get it. He listened. I helped him climb over the wooden fence and he disappeared. A few breathless moments passed by before I started to wonder how he would get back. Eventually, the girl who lived next door led him back into the yard. He had returned with the ball, a few splinters, and a sheepish grin.

And there was another time, when we were a little older, I told him to confess to my parents that he broke the lamp. Really, it was me who did, because I liked the sound of his laughter. He was laughing at me while I danced -- I wasn't very good, but embarrassment was not a known factor in my life at that time, and frankly, his giggles were really cute. When I tripped over my own leg, and smashed into the night table, all I could hear was his hysterical laughter.

A shade of red covered his dust of freckles as he obeyed my orders. He told my parents it was him who knocked into the night table, ultimately destroying the lamp.

It was in a moment of desperation when I asked him to tell Adrienne that the magazines under my bed were really his. This was the era where embarrassment and social status truly existed, but impressing girls in return for hickeys were much more important.

He looked at me questioningly.

"She was over," I explained, "and we were about to get it on. But then she dropped the condom and reached for it under the bed and came across the magazines..."

"And?"

"And I told her the stash was yours, because your parents are very, um, religious, and if they had found it at your house, they would kill you..."

"Man," he commented disapprovingly, but I heard the hint of amusement in his tone. And the corner of his lip hitching upwards ever so slightly.

So the next time it was the three of us hanging out, she awkwardly brought it up and he coughed, stating he was keeping his magazines under my bed for safekeeping.

One night, with the stress of school and homework and growing up, we fought. It wasn't like our usual disagreements, which were about video games or girls or the type of pizza we should order. It was different, and the tensions that caused this fight had been there for a while. For a long time. Twisting and struggling and writhing in my mind.

The tensions were unidentifiable, though I knew they had something to do with him.

As we fought, our words, which had previously tasted like poison in our mouths, had eventually turned into sweet desperate pleas.

Kiss me then, I had said, If that's the way it is, kiss me.

And he did. Of course he did.

And what about those other times I told him to kiss me. Holding his wrists gently, I commanded that he kiss me into another world. Soon, his laughter turned into hot breaths against my lips. He listened to me as I asked him to continue, as I asked him to never ever stop.

And those times we would lay in bed, so close together that our hearts would connect. He would listen. Listen to my voice and its softness as I spoke, saying all the things my mind would bother crossing. He would listen to those early morning thoughts and late night rambles. It felt as if my talking and his listening were soulmates just like him and I were.

And then there was another fight, where anger seemed to stand in the way between us. Kissing couldn't help the tightness of my lips or the fury of his eyes or the cracking knuckles as fists curled.

And then I said something with a voice so unfamiliar, so foreign that only the raw ache in my throat suggests that it actually came from me.

Get out of my life, I had said to him. Leave, and never come back.

And he listened.

Of course he listened.

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