Big Dump

I don't think this deserves a name, no?

In Colin’s kitchen it must be warm, but I’m freezing to the point of shaking, although I’m wearing a sweater and he is clad in just a white shirt. I lean over the table, over my teacup, and he is looking at me with calm eyes, which feels good.

“You know I can count your bones?” he says slowly, his eyes skimming over my shoulders. I flash him a toothy grin, getting him started with my teeth.

“That sweater you are wearing,” he continues, “Ten years ago, when you were still a teenager, I think you filled it up better than now.”

“They stopped selling the lentil soup. You know how much I love the lentil soup.”

I drink the tea and tastes unbelievably good.

“What’s your secret recipe?” I smile up at him again.

“Lots of milk and honey,” he answers. He’s leaning back on his chair in a pose that challenges me for the talk. It’s his “Let’s get down to business” pose. I ignore it completely and sip the tea.

“Thom, I really…”

“…you know what drives me crazy? It’s all the hair,” I say, leaning back and running my hands through my hair, “Really, I keep losing it. What the hell? I mean, never mind I can’t utter a single word,” I bite my lip, which is already fleshy, “Never mind I can’t touch the fucking guitar. The hair! That’s the last thing I thought would happen to me.”

Colin looks at me with his dark eyes. I look at the table, my hands still tangled in my hair. I see him contemplating my shoulders again and I think it would be fun to take off my sweater to give him a better look.

“What are you trying to do, Thom?”

“What am I trying to do,” I mutter to myself, “Nothing. I want all of it back,” my hand cuts through the air, “All of it. You know I can’t make love to her? It’s, it’s…never mind the sex, just touching, I’m disgusted. It’s disgusting. And I yell at her and I can’t stop myself like I’m a bloody freak, and just the regular sounds she makes, the sound of her breathing, that’s, that drives me nuts. I can’t be in the same room with her, I absolutely can’t touch anything she touches. And my thoughts,” my hands are back on my head, “My thoughts, they are like worms, each day, they eat deeper and deeper, they have bloody roots, they are like mushrooms. And why should it be like this?” I rub at my eyes, lower my head slightly, “She doesn’t deserve it. I don’t deserve it. Nobody deserves it. I’m sorry,” I throw my head back until it almost hurts, “I’m sorry I’m talking to like this, I know it’s too much of a load.”

I fall silent for a second, but I can’t stop.
“You know what the thought that calms me down? The thought of banging my head against the counter, just one time, but hard enough. That’s all.”

“Do you want me to get cheesy?” he asks and I smile behind my hands. I squeeze my eyes and smile as widely as I can. I shake my head yes.

“I don’t really remember the order,” he says, “But there are several stages to this. I think you just got into desperation, is all. Borderline madness.”

I laugh.

“Wicked. And here I am, trying to act all original, while it’s all written down,” I look at his ceiling, “The final stage’s death, right? I mean, it has to be. With the speed I’m going, I reckon it’s going to be natural death.”

“Ever thought about the music you’d write with him by your side?”

I twitch a bit. Smile at him, a bit lopsided.

“I don’t know,” I sigh and then raise a finger at him, “But you, you don’t talk like that to me.”

“You know I’ve been feeding off of you?” he says and I raise my eyes at him tiredly, “Of the two of you. This is beautiful, in a way. You never catch each other, all right. You just run, is all, and the most beautiful thing is that run. ‘Cause you put of all yourself in it, and since you never cease the day, you exhaust yourself. Breathe yourself out. And that’s beautiful.”

“No,” I shake my head, “It’s not like that. I’m a real person, I’m not some kind of character. In real life, the most beautiful thing is after you cease it.”

“Then you are a bloody idiot then,” he says, his eyes animated a bit, “A bloody idiot.”

I walk away from his house, squishing the gravel, and the sun hits my back, so I take off my sweater and drop it on the ground. It stays there when I get in the car and drive and it is still there when I knock on his door. She opens it, welcoming and with a smile frozen upon her face and I say that I’m sorry, I’m very sorry, but I love him.

She doesn’t understand, I guess, so I push past her and walk into the house, scanning the rooms. His son is playing in the living room, raising his head from the toy truck to look at me and I don’t think about it too much, I just run upstairs and he is not there. What is there – the perfectly made bed and fresh flowers in a vase, and lovely smell. I scramble down, and then down again, finding him sitting there, forgotten guitar on his lap, ears perked up and he cries out my name when he sees me. Sorry, I say to him, falling on my knees and clutching his face in my hands, sorry. I kiss him, just pressing our faces together, lips mashing, and I mutter, “Will you have me?” After all of this, after he found her and after everything, after all the lost opportunities. After my bloody stages.

And what he says severs his house in half.