He hunches sideways in the chair, long backbone wedged at an awkward angle, arms folded gracefully over the left armrest. I watch; my eyes trace the angular lines of his body, making a mental sketch of this pose in crude slashes of black ink and red lipstick. I will remember him in this instant – the minute threads of tawny hair, the freckle constellations, the feathery eyelash shadows on his cheeks. No one else can have these details; these are visible only from the precise distance between my eyes and his.
From his glance, I realize my locket has fallen open. I snap it shut.
Deep breath.
Like bad actors, we’ve lost our place in this conversation. We fumble with our scripts. The audience grows restless. Coughing. Programs rustle.
“I’m growing a thorn bush,” I begin.
His lips twitch slightly, listening.
“I’m still mad, I mean. At Bobby. I’m mad that I’m not over him. I thought I was. But this thorn bush has been growing. I realized it.”
The eternal theater critics lean forward in their chairs.
“When?”
“He made my sister cry,” I say, plowing ahead with my monologue. “She was visiting and they talked – they were friends, you know, before. I went to bed. She woke me later, crying. She’d just believed in us so much and had never really had a chance to grieve about it. It made me mad. Most of the time I’m like the Queen of Hearts, you know? Paint the roses red. But every now and then, just for the hell of it, I go over and – are those thorns? Shit!”
He smiles. I’m on a roll.
“I don’t know. At first I was mad because he didn’t hurt me worse. He could have been cruel. Maybe that would have made this easier. But even if he had been, I wouldn’t have believed him. I can’t make my heart believe him. Which means that I’m living in this thing that isn’t true. And that pisses me off.”
He absorbs this, then asks, “Do you think you’ll get back together?”
New territory.
I improvise, “Part of me thinks so. But another part of me tells that part to forget it. It won’t happen. I don’t know.”
“You told me that love sometimes dies.”
I look up at him quickly.
“I don’t believe that,” he reassures me. “But you do.”
“Hm.”
Silence. I bask in the glow of his faith. He is suddenly so old to me. He is ancient and I am ancient. And we go on, walking, talking, our ancient hands clasped firmly together. The veil of the other life hangs paralyzingly close. The watchers hold their breath.
But my coffee cup is empty.
We are so young. I let it go. Sand through my hourglass.
A shining, beautiful grain of sand.
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