I Know That You'll Go Soon, You'll Find Out So Take Me With You Always, I Know That You'll Go Soon, You'll Find Out So Take Me With You Always
--"Sad Song", Au Revoir Simone
They stopped for gelato before they boarded their bus. It was this skeezy dive that catered to the families, couples, and friends who seemed to meander aimlessly through the shopping center. When he bought her a cup of the raspberry, she smiled like he had just bought her the world or, at least, her own little piece of it. It was a small gesture. Slight, really. And he couldn't quite put his finger on why she was made so happy by it. Yet as she sat down to enjoy her treat, he saw it again, that unwavering smile, that unquestioning hope for him being a decent fellow after all.
He was tempted to take it away from her just to spite her. He was curious to see what she would do then, how happy she would be then. However, he knew he couldn't. She deserved this. She deserved this one small favor. He let her have her treat.
Between bites, he caught her looking up at her out of the corner of his eye--that goldenrod hair of hers, those turquoise eyes of hers. He did his best to ignore the half-hidden requests for contact, to keep his eyes from straying to that pixel-like body of hers. That's how he had ended up in this mess to beging with. He continued to stare out at the ever-evolving crowd--young one minute, ancient the next. He really didn't want to exchange words with her. Not yet. He wanted to keep this delay as brief and as unmemorable as possible. Whenever she asked him a question, trying as she might to engage him, he softly answered, offering nothing more than what he had to. He was the model of polite indifference and fairly soon she hesitatingly gave up on meaningful conversation.
He had hooked up with her somewhere near Bakersfield, on the outskirts of his complete breakdown. He had been one step from desolation and she had rescued him from that. That's why he had been grateful. That's why he had agreed to chaperone her on the rest of her trip east to her future endeavors. It was from a misguided sense of gratitude and a lingering claim to decency that prevented him from leaving her. True, she was good company--always quick with some dangling observation, always offering up some cheery advice for him. In that manner they had covered the last eight states, always on the cusp of stranding the pair of them at the next level.
They had split the motel room for the last few nights, him on the floor, her on the bed waiting for him to join her. Two of those nights he had been weaker and taken advantage of her even more glaring weaknesses. He had tried not to think of it too much. He tried not to think of anything too much. It had been what it had been, another blatant attempt on his part at feeling something real. The experiment had failed completely--at least, according to him.
She was a completely different story.
When she had just about finished her gelato, he pressed for her to hurry so they could get back on the beat-up Greyhound. She didn't want to be late, he asked, did she? Of course she didn't. So he he took her hand, roughly at first, but softening at the sight of her face scrunching in discomfort. He was in such a hurry just to get on the bus, he had forgotten the niceties of traveling with a companion. Simply because he needed to be somewhere quickly didn't necessitate the same need in her. As far as he could tell she wouldn't have minded if this trip had lasted the whole year, as long as she could spend it with him. When the two of them went back to gently sauntering up to the bus, her mood grew remarkably brighter again.
They got on the bus without incident. They sat next to each other without incident. They prepared for the trip without incident. All in all, it looked to be an uneventful ride.
"But you don't even know where I'm headed," he heard himself in response to her question.
"Well, you should care because I might be headed somewhere you mightn't like at all."
He couldn't actually hear the words she was speaking. He could only discern her blonde head moving in barely recognizable patterns of communication. She didn't so much say what she was thinking as much as bob and twist her head to relay her thoughts. It was a wonder he understood her at all.
"We can talk about it later. Now just relax," he told her, placing his hands over hers. They felt soft in his touch. They felt nervous, anticipatory. Those feelings faded within them over time. The longer he remained holding onto them, the more relaxed they felt, until finally they were like gentle wisps of paper, barely registering in his grip at all. He began stroking her arm, gently willing her to relax. Just relax. Just let yourself go.
She had asked him the last night of his weakness. She had asked him to take her with him wherever he went. That night, the way her voice had seemed to crumble on itself, the way her body had rippled beneath the tawny overhead lamp, the way he had felt weak and alone, he had agreed to her entreaty without thinking over what it really meant for him. She didn't want to rescue him, she wanted him to rescue her. Whereas he had needed someone to find a place where he felt like he belonged, she had seemed to need a someone to belong to. For that night she belonged to him and she had been grateful to him for the possession. For that night, he let her believe whatever she wanted to believe--that the two of them would live a life together somewhere elsewhere, that the two of them could fall in love someday, that he was capable of being worthy of her. For that night he let it all ride.
But he knew he could never own her in much the same vein he never really owned much. What was there to own that could ever make him happy, after all?
Take her with him? Impossible.
She wasn't a bad kid--bright, full of hope. She was like a cheerleader who had never joined the squad. She was the type of kid who believed hope and optimism were the antidote to the malaise that most people suffered from. What she couldn't wrap her pretty, little head around was the fact that most people that suffered from what he had didn't want to be cured. They didn't need the hope. What they really needed before anything else was something to convince them that hope was some type of salvation. They didn't need to know that their god was out there for them, ready to accept them into his fold, they needed to be sure that god really had his heavens to back up his claims. They needed the idea that once they had hope, that hope would steer them to happiness. That was her problem. To her hope, happiness, and harmony were all the same thing. To her happiness was like sunshine, you couldn't touch it, but you could feel it. Well, he needed to feel his happiness and he was always in search of the next thing that could provide that sensation.
It had been her for a time.
But now that time was over.
on buses that move through the night
we sleep on and on
She fell asleep a little past eleven by his watch. He watched her curl up her head on the seat, positioning it next to the side of the bus. He gently moved her legs off of his legs and watched her settle into her new shape. He counted to the number eight before finally stepping across the aisle to sit down.
For the next few stops, he watched to see if she would notice he had gotten up. Part of him wanted her to wake up and ask him again to stay with her, to keep her company for the long journey. Part of him wanted her to notice he was gone. Part of him wanted her to miss him just that much.
But she never woke up.
At the fifth stop, some forty miles from the last one, he stood up in his seat. He chanced another look at his sleeping beauty, saw the crinkles of a smile for some dream she was having, and shook his head. Even in sleep, nothing could cut through that optimism. He quickly got off the bus. He made no attempt to stop the bus or to flag it down. He merely started walking for the nearest motel, aware that he had yet one more person to regret meeting in his life.
Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers
They stopped for gelato before they boarded their bus. It was this skeezy dive that catered to the families, couples, and friends who seemed to meander aimlessly through the shopping center. When he bought her a cup of the raspberry, she smiled like he had just bought her the world or, at least, her own little piece of it. It was a small gesture. Slight, really. And he couldn't quite put his finger on why she was made so happy by it. Yet as she sat down to enjoy her treat, he saw it again, that unwavering smile, that unquestioning hope for him being a decent fellow after all.He was tempted to take it away from her just to spite her. He was curious to see what she would do then, how happy she would be then. However, he knew he couldn't. She deserved this. She deserved this one small favor. He let her have her treat.
Between bites, he caught her looking up at her out of the corner of his eye--that goldenrod hair of hers, those turquoise eyes of hers. He did his best to ignore the half-hidden requests for contact, to keep his eyes from straying to that pixel-like body of hers. That's how he had ended up in this mess to beging with. He continued to stare out at the ever-evolving crowd--young one minute, ancient the next. He really didn't want to exchange words with her. Not yet. He wanted to keep this delay as brief and as unmemorable as possible. Whenever she asked him a question, trying as she might to engage him, he softly answered, offering nothing more than what he had to. He was the model of polite indifference and fairly soon she hesitatingly gave up on meaningful conversation.
He had hooked up with her somewhere near Bakersfield, on the outskirts of his complete breakdown. He had been one step from desolation and she had rescued him from that. That's why he had been grateful. That's why he had agreed to chaperone her on the rest of her trip east to her future endeavors. It was from a misguided sense of gratitude and a lingering claim to decency that prevented him from leaving her. True, she was good company--always quick with some dangling observation, always offering up some cheery advice for him. In that manner they had covered the last eight states, always on the cusp of stranding the pair of them at the next level.
They had split the motel room for the last few nights, him on the floor, her on the bed waiting for him to join her. Two of those nights he had been weaker and taken advantage of her even more glaring weaknesses. He had tried not to think of it too much. He tried not to think of anything too much. It had been what it had been, another blatant attempt on his part at feeling something real. The experiment had failed completely--at least, according to him.
She was a completely different story.
When she had just about finished her gelato, he pressed for her to hurry so they could get back on the beat-up Greyhound. She didn't want to be late, he asked, did she? Of course she didn't. So he he took her hand, roughly at first, but softening at the sight of her face scrunching in discomfort. He was in such a hurry just to get on the bus, he had forgotten the niceties of traveling with a companion. Simply because he needed to be somewhere quickly didn't necessitate the same need in her. As far as he could tell she wouldn't have minded if this trip had lasted the whole year, as long as she could spend it with him. When the two of them went back to gently sauntering up to the bus, her mood grew remarkably brighter again.
They got on the bus without incident. They sat next to each other without incident. They prepared for the trip without incident. All in all, it looked to be an uneventful ride.
"But you don't even know where I'm headed," he heard himself in response to her question.
"Well, you should care because I might be headed somewhere you mightn't like at all."
He couldn't actually hear the words she was speaking. He could only discern her blonde head moving in barely recognizable patterns of communication. She didn't so much say what she was thinking as much as bob and twist her head to relay her thoughts. It was a wonder he understood her at all.
"We can talk about it later. Now just relax," he told her, placing his hands over hers. They felt soft in his touch. They felt nervous, anticipatory. Those feelings faded within them over time. The longer he remained holding onto them, the more relaxed they felt, until finally they were like gentle wisps of paper, barely registering in his grip at all. He began stroking her arm, gently willing her to relax. Just relax. Just let yourself go.
She had asked him the last night of his weakness. She had asked him to take her with him wherever he went. That night, the way her voice had seemed to crumble on itself, the way her body had rippled beneath the tawny overhead lamp, the way he had felt weak and alone, he had agreed to her entreaty without thinking over what it really meant for him. She didn't want to rescue him, she wanted him to rescue her. Whereas he had needed someone to find a place where he felt like he belonged, she had seemed to need a someone to belong to. For that night she belonged to him and she had been grateful to him for the possession. For that night, he let her believe whatever she wanted to believe--that the two of them would live a life together somewhere elsewhere, that the two of them could fall in love someday, that he was capable of being worthy of her. For that night he let it all ride.
But he knew he could never own her in much the same vein he never really owned much. What was there to own that could ever make him happy, after all?
Take her with him? Impossible.
She wasn't a bad kid--bright, full of hope. She was like a cheerleader who had never joined the squad. She was the type of kid who believed hope and optimism were the antidote to the malaise that most people suffered from. What she couldn't wrap her pretty, little head around was the fact that most people that suffered from what he had didn't want to be cured. They didn't need the hope. What they really needed before anything else was something to convince them that hope was some type of salvation. They didn't need to know that their god was out there for them, ready to accept them into his fold, they needed to be sure that god really had his heavens to back up his claims. They needed the idea that once they had hope, that hope would steer them to happiness. That was her problem. To her hope, happiness, and harmony were all the same thing. To her happiness was like sunshine, you couldn't touch it, but you could feel it. Well, he needed to feel his happiness and he was always in search of the next thing that could provide that sensation.
It had been her for a time.
But now that time was over.
on buses that move through the night
we sleep on and on
She fell asleep a little past eleven by his watch. He watched her curl up her head on the seat, positioning it next to the side of the bus. He gently moved her legs off of his legs and watched her settle into her new shape. He counted to the number eight before finally stepping across the aisle to sit down.
For the next few stops, he watched to see if she would notice he had gotten up. Part of him wanted her to wake up and ask him again to stay with her, to keep her company for the long journey. Part of him wanted her to notice he was gone. Part of him wanted her to miss him just that much.
But she never woke up.
At the fifth stop, some forty miles from the last one, he stood up in his seat. He chanced another look at his sleeping beauty, saw the crinkles of a smile for some dream she was having, and shook his head. Even in sleep, nothing could cut through that optimism. He quickly got off the bus. He made no attempt to stop the bus or to flag it down. He merely started walking for the nearest motel, aware that he had yet one more person to regret meeting in his life.
Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers
posted by mojo shivers @ 2:09 AM
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