It is sick. I don’t why I still let him do this, why I still do this myself, but it’s been going on for years.
I growl and hit my palms on the steering wheel, shaking my head. I’m absolutely mad – at him, at myself, at the music because it is not loud enough. The sun is setting down, I catch the last glimpse of red metal before it disappears behind the horizon and the whole world is made of the fields in the twilight.
I gaze at the clock and try to calm myself down. Concentrate on the cool road and not on the hot pulse in my temples. I’m going way too fast, but I’m aware of the nasty feeling in my stomach. He’s alone there, all alone. He might do something stupid.
I sigh out and glance at the clock, then at the road again. I’m not worried about him hurting himself – he’s got too much of a backbone, it always brings him back. Whiplash motion, sort of. But I can’t say how many times I, or others, picked him up off the street or just found him soaking drunk, half-conscious. Thank God it’s summer.
It’s hard to see it during the breaks. On tour he’s usually close, and it’s easy, however when we are home and we don’t see each other…it’s nerve wrecking. Not because of his tantrums such is this one, but just because I don’t really know where he is, what air he breathes, what people he talks to. Sometimes I can’t stand it and I drive to see him, only to be met with understanding smiles and his soft voice and eyes. The tone of his voice changes when he sees me, I think. The way his fingers bend changes, I think. The way he breathes changes, I think.
So it’s been two months since our last conversation – a short telephone talk. I sensed something was wrong by the way he never showed up; by the way nobody talked about him. Last night Colin rang him and when we met today he told me that he sounded, “A bit weird, but you know him, he gets like that sometimes…” So here I am. About a mile to his place, I know by the small boulder on the side of the road.
I park a bit away from his house and then walk, because the sound of tires on the gravel would send him toward temporary recovery and he’ll greet me with an artificial plastic smile. So I open the front door carefully and walk quietly inside, not waiting for my eyes to adjust. It’s not completely dark yet and I see his figure on the sofa, hugging himself.
I slip right next to him and wrap my arm around his chest.
“No, no, no, no,” he whispers, tensing, “You shouldn’t be here, Jonny, go, come on, just go.”
“Shhhh,” I smooth out his hair and dare to kiss his ear softly.
“I’m fine,” he says and sighs. I feel my lips burning. It’s unbelievably comfortable, unbelievably good, unbelievably blissful to hold him like this. In a short while he turns around and I follow, so we lie on our backs, my arms around him and his around myself.
“Thanks for coming,” he says, his fingertips drawing designs on my hand.
“I wouldn’t miss this,” I say and he chuckles, “We should have a private phone line going from my house to yours.”
“Oh yeah. Two cans attached to a long-long string.”
“And if the rabbits chew through the string and break the contact?”
“Then our fate is inevitable.”
“Bloody rabbits.”
“Yes, bloody rabbits.”
We lie there, not moving, because that is happening is not going to ever mentioned again. And if it’s not mentioned, it’s non-existent. I play with his hair and realize that neither of us wants to fall asleep first – because when we’ll wake up, either would be gone.
He starts humming a lullaby, and I can’t help but giggle. He follows me.
“Oooooh, fuuuuck,” he laughs, flipping over and putting his chin on my chest, looking at my face with a smirk, “When did it get so ridiculous?”
“I don’t know,” I say brushing his cheek gently, “I thought it was always ridiculous.”
“I guess,” he says, putting his cheek to my heart and closing his eyes, “Goodnight, Jonny,” he finishes, lingering on the moment for a little while before closing his eyes.
At the dusk I open my eyes and roll him off of me gently, without waking him up. I rearrange my hair quickly and tiptoe out of the room, while he is still sleeping.
I boil a kettle and make him his morning tea.
When I go back, he is sitting on the sofa, hugging his shoulders and staring at the floor, his hair all messed up. Hearing me, he raises his eyes and looks at me, astonished and out of words.
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