Adelia

[5]

"And so he just died, like that?"

"Like that." And then I snapped the book closed, implying that it really was like that.

She swirled her beige coffee cup and sipped it. The air smelled of words and caffeine. It made sense, although. We were in a book shop, YA section, sat on spinny chairs, frolicing through memories of Harry Potter and middle school. It felt so fresh after these years, like seeing your best friend after a decade and smiling as they remained unchanged. 

She was wearing my trousers, I must tell you, a bit unusual for her, but it made me quite happy, the over-sized pants hanging loosely on her tiny frame. And then I also must say that it really wasn't like that. We slept for a really long time, a hibernation that felt much-needed and when we woke up it wasn't awkward or overlapped with pink-tinged cheeks. It was a lazy, smiley kind of waking up. We talked for a kind of long time as well, folding to match the emotions. The 'you're an idiot, and we're just friends, but you give the warmest philosophies I've ever come to know' kind. It was sugary talk, dreaming big we were, all of these academic illusions like we could make something more of ourselves than a couple go-lucky teens who liked food. We couldn't, of course. But maybe we hadn't figured that out yet.

"We should take me home," Her eyes squinted, and she tilted her head. I presumed she was imagining my baffled reaction, but then maybe the lightning was too bright for her guilty eyes.

My hands kind of fell into my jean pockets, tumbled in. I leaned on a shelf. She was right, of course she was. But it didn't hurt any less. Something was proved here today: That love or friendship or whatever this was could not triumph instincts and familiarity. This was unfamiliar to her, and it wasn't that she didn't like it, it was that she did and that was terrifying. I did understand, I always did. I had too, rather sorrowfully.  She was still latched to be lonely, and going wherever she went. I'll bet that it was cold and damp and I bet she didn't get coffee or books there, either. Or people who a shit, which is quite important. 

I pulled her hand away from the book as it went spinning downward, collapsing to the floor. Her lips parted, she was avoiding looking at me, I knew it. So she just gazed at the limp pages of a story. A thought scuttled by my mind: maybe we could go to a shelter. But maybe she would also get offended. Hurt. She would feel unwanted and lousy, I think. Supposing that I truly saw her as the scum of the earth. On the contrary, I thought the opposite.

"Adelia, " The sides of my mouth curled up gently and I traced the tips of her hand. She couldn't refuse me like this. Her heart would spill over, her soul scramble for escape, our eyes, would crack to unleash pent up feelings, "do you really want too?"

She lightly kicked the book, still not looking up, "Well, yes, I do. I have too. This can't happen, see? It's bad."

"Bad?" I knew that she was a bit shy, and I was a bit forward, but bad was no part of us. We left bad in the dust the day she brought that first piece of bruschetta into her mouth and a smile flickered between her hollow cheeks. The stars gleamed the way that they do, and it was good. So good. It was most likely the only good she had ever felt. Being with me. Releasing her shoulders. Dazing and joking like she never could before.

Why would anyone want to lose that?

That was it. That was the crumbling pain. The fact that she was lonesome and sad and so was I, and when together, it all deflated and it wasn't remembered. It hurt that she would trade this, for that. This twinkling thing for that tragic thing. It wasn't fair.

And she was like, "I have to go now, really."

And so she went, and as all the other times, I didn't stop her.