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FRIDAY, JANUARY 18, 2019

MEMORY OF THEM

Jackson

2009-05-29 03:58:44

Other

Memory of Them

“The sky is clear, the air is chill
the sun has just abandoned us
On such a night, some words can kill
There is no peace
Inside at least
When I recall the night that you left me
My thoughts all coalesce as poetry”

~ Jackson


If only they could freeze the sunset and themselves along with it. They are smiling as they enter his house, happy for now, in the dim light of an early-summer night. It is a Thursday in early June, but it feels like a lazy sunday in the heart of August. They are coming from a show put on by their friends, and the air is full of warmth, sweetness and love.

They go inside and sit and talk about future productions; about the future; about their future. She is sitting at the head of his bed in a room only slightly warmer than the early summer air outside. At the foot of the bed, on the faux fur comforter, he sits facing her. He tells a joke and it is so damn funny that she rolls forward and buries her face in the comforter. She breathes in deeply, through the soft, fake fur.

She breathes in deeply and then recoils slightly. “It smells like sex”.

“I hope its mine” he says jokingly. All he meant was to say that he hoped no-one had snuck in and made a mess in his place. What she heard was very different. She heard him say “I hope you can’t smell the sex I have had with someone else”.

She had promised never to ask, and he had promised never to tell; she stands up with the look of someone who has committed a crime. She steps back, three short steps. “I can’t do this anymore”.

He breathes in deep and looks, wounded, towards her. At three steps away she makes herself seem so distant that no effort would allow him to reach out and touch her. She is standing near the bookshelf where he keeps his philosophy books - every one useless at this moment. He has no words; he stands there, a criminal.

“I can’t be with someone who I am not one hundred percent in love with”

He pleads for an explanation and she corrects herself. She does love him completely. What she meant to say was that she could not be with someone who was not one hundred percent in love with her. She leaves - the details of her exodus are obscured by a sad mist.

As he sits alone on the floor of his room, a floor with new carpets which were bought to help him get over the loss of his wife one year prior, he feels once again helpless. As he sits on the floor, in his dimly lit room, he types out a text message which, though he sends, is never answered...

<you are my one hundred percent>


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