Sundays

He spins, spins, spins around in his chair. My world goes dizzy. It takes both hands to make it… everything.. stop, and my hands are already full, and finally he is facing me. Here we are, a last second plan back-t0-normal after an interval of coffee cups without sugar. The couch is comfortable enough, the air is even better, the place feels the same. I lounge about and stare at him. Fast forward, rewind, and back to square one.

He’s hunched back, eyes on the floor. “This fucks me up.” There’s a mannequin behind us and it’s standing feelingless. Word, thought, action. Action without word, thought without action. Why are you silent? “I just. I don’t know. You tell me.” Downcasted, there’s a reason why we keep coming back… it’s a reason I need and I hope it stays. But I’m the one who can’t deal, when you look down, I’m forced to look somewhere else, and start talking. The SLR is great.  So was the juice. And fucked up isn’t always a bad thing. As long as the lights keep on rolling and we speak our mind when it’s not required. But looking down turns the tables around from where I’m sitting and suddenly I need to get up and I feel like I want to dance with you.

The car ride back isn’t silent. The night is perfect. Music plays and disconnects between sentences and we stare at an empty sky. I love filling it it up with laughter.

When I see her finally, she knows I am happy.
Swimming pools never felt as serene, it’s not sea-water, it’s artificial, but it offers the same reflection we stayed up all night observing – old jokes, breathing spaces.

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~ by asad on March 23, 2009.

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