Aerial

The Ninth Chapter

"Make sure you sew every fuckin' bead in place so that earth doesn't drop off its axis."

Harry's sixteenth cigarette of the day teeters in the divot of the ashtray just below his bare navel, a coiled spring of smoke twisting before disappearing into the stagnant air of your dressing room. He's barely been smoking them though; he lights them compulsorily and takes a few drags before dropping them in the closest receptacle or balancing them on the edge of a table, only to curse when he remembers to return to them and finds a pile of dusty rose ash in their place several minutes later.

In contrast to a mere twenty four hours ago when his eyes were drilling holes straight to the back of your head beside the fountain, with the exchange of his worn, buttery leather wallet slipping from your fingertips to his, he's only made the effort to look at you while performing stunts tonight inside of the circus ring for an audience of thousands. He arrived to rehearsal half an hour late this morning, unshaven face and briny waves of cocoa crashing around his cheekbones. His hands were more fidgety than usual as they toyed with his clothing, tugged on his bottom lip, combed through his hair and showed hours of physical evidence of restlessness by the layer of grime underneath his nails.

You knew better than to confront him about what you saw in his wallet from the evening prior before your performance, so instead you've been quietly stewing and waiting for the right moment to pounce. Although the more hours that pass only lead to self-consciousness and doubt, as if practicing the wording of your questions only make you more fearful to confront him in the first place. With each mindful run-through comes a new possibility for his reaction, each one more terrifying than the one before it.

There is an enigma bubbling madly and it seems as though it's about to spill over, all of the possible outcomes sitting underneath a sheet and forming shapes upon shapes of mystery against the flimsy fabric. The moment that layer is torn away, you're going to be blindsided by the colorful discovery and now you're wishing you could backtrack and plug up every hole you've punctured. You're not ready for the dam to burst just yet, but you've never been able to let things go either. 

Considering the craggy lump you've both been acclimating on for the entirety of today, your second performance went off without a hitch. You suppose it's a positive quality that you can both shove aside your personal needs for the sake of professionalism and appearance, but you're not sure what that says about the care-taking of your mental health. Nettie is as patient as ever with your nightly gripes and burning questions, but you know her well will be tapped soon and once that resource is dry, you'll be left to your own devices and that's when things will surely become complicated.

The tattered leather of his wallet practically vibrates on the seat of the couch beside you along with a pack of Crush cigarettes and a box of matches, the two halves parted as if waiting with baited breath for the moment where you can steal another glimpse at your snipped headshot.

Harry wiggles a piece of waxed dental floss between his molars and flicks his gaze to you but you don't notice. You seem to have noticed hardly anything today, your usual barrage of questions brought to an unusually muffled standstill and your eyes focused on every single object in the room but him. The lack of attention is driving him insane with anticipation and anger, knowing that there is something you need to ask him but instead you choose to punish him with silence like a typical chick. Nearly each one of his lines today has been avoided, save for the handful of orders he barked about needing a more powerful swing upon kick-off from the trapeze platform. He wouldn't say he misses your terrible comebacks and snappy retorts, he simply notices that they're gone.

He watches the fine, sharp needle dip into the fabric of your hand-sewn costume as you sit on the floor to repair some beading the way only a trained dancer would; one leg bent and the other stretched long with your toes gracefully and unconsciously pointed, the pink thread making its way to your mouth every so often to keep the ends from fraying. Everything about you is so fucking graceful and unconscious that it must be an act to portray a disguise of composure for onlookers. He often wonders what would happen if he grabbed that sewing needle from your hands and poked your skin, if all of your hot air would burst out and you'd go soaring across the room completely shriveled and drained of cherry-flavored substance.