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They Exchange the Truth of Bodies

Short story By: Kathryn

I tune the radio to static and as I hear the white noise, I listen for a rock song about us. As 'Broken' by Lifehouse plays, I think to myself, "How appropriate"...

Submitted:Feb 10, 2008    Reads: 146    Comments: 2    Likes: 3   

One day I won't be attracted to him. One day I will no longer seek out the drummers and cowboys of this world- the ones who are the most broken and in need of the most love. Perhaps one day I won't keep his name hovering around in the back of my mind, coaxing me to him. It's ironically tragic really, the way this whole thing has played out. We need and want each other for all the wrong reasons and despite the fact that we are so unlikely and living the wrong lives, we find ourselves thrown together in this fated accident. Is it a coincedence that these gypsy hearts of ours get so tangled up?

Whatever the reasons we were brought together, it happened. It started the same way that night as it had before: with a long, lonely drive across town to your place. The whole night resides in my mind like a streaming video- dramatic lighting, beautiful soundtracks, and the best acting love can buy.

I ring the doorbell and you eagerly answer it in a grey shirt and jeans. Just like me. We match, I think. You lead me up the stairwell, telling me that your room is changed. I follow you through the door and see that the posters are gone, candles are lit, and your drums are obediently waiting in the corner. Was this all for me?

You play the drums for me, like you promised, and it sounds exactly how I would imagine them to. You are quite the musician, I think. The beat matches my nervous heart and the clanging cymbals make me melt beneath my own skin. It's funny how the feelings you can't describe are always the ones worth writing about. This feeling words wouldn't do justice to. It was new, exciting, and rebellious and I knew better than to call it love. What would you call it?

I get a turn on the drums and you hold my hands in yours and play with me the same magical noises as before. I feel important. I feel special. Not like at Blues Club. I am on stage playing for thousands of screaming fans, and we belong like this-hand in hand making music. You teach me what it's like to be a drummer and for a minute I believe the song is coming from somewhere within me. The dull roar of the audience subsides and we find ourselves sitting shoulder to shoulder on your love seat. We listen to background music and get swept up in the night.

We chat and talk and do nothing of consequence; then you lean in to peck me and I lean back, making you chase my lips. Yours land on mine and I smile. Your eyes ask if that was okay and I nod. I suppose one kiss never hurt anybody. You ask for a massage and I agree. You turn over- now shirtless- and I knead your skin with my fingers and palms and knuckles. Your body relaxes and your muscles are tender and beautiful. I see the freckles dotting your shoulders and, staring at those angel kisses, I realize I wasn't here first. I draw pictures with my fingers on your spine and you soak up every little touch. Your skin is burning, a raging fire underneath me, and all this heat reminds me of another bad boy- Jacob. You turn over and I trace words on your chest. When you ask what I am writing I tell you, "Everything."

You suggest that we get you out of your mind and get me out of these clothes and I laugh and tell you, "Sorry, not until there is a ring on my finger."

You try to remedy the situation by reaching into your pocket, pulling out your class ring, and slipping it on my finger. "Sorry, again," I say, "You need to be down on one knee for this to be done right."

"It was worth asking," you tell me.

"I can't blame you," I reply honestly.

Dave Matthews Band plays on and I can smell the candles burning. I continue tracing patterns on your warm body and then like magnets our mouths pull towards one another. Our lips connect like dots on the pages of a coloring book and I close my eyes and breathe you in. You want to be inside me, under my skin, but we both know this is not going to happen. You part my lips and I taste sparks on your tongue again. I remember what it is like to get a rush. As I circle my thumb in your palm I wonder how much of this we mean and how much of this is out of need. I close my eyes and lay here thinking how we are exchanging the truth of bodies. Your fingers comb my hair and I wonder where we'll be in five years. I wonder if one of us will follow the other. What would happen if I followed you?

My mind flashes foward to fiction and I see myself in a crowded room. I stare at my reflection in the bottom of a red plastic party cup and try not to slur my speech as I tell you I want to go home. We leave through the front door, or maybe it is the back? Either way, we are alone on the driveway and with alcohol on my breath and smoke in my clothes, I find myself leaning backwards onto the hood of my car, your hands guiding me. You are kissing my neck. My fingers are getting tangled in your hair and my legs are stumbling between yours. The car door opens and you slide me into the backseat. My belt is removed and my buttons undo themselves and your face becomes a blur against all the rest of your skin and I can't seem to remember where I am. In a rush and a whirl of fantastical movements I think we are both somehow naked.

But fiction fades into reality and in the traffic on the way home I mumble, "I can't afford another red light."


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