The Death of Friends

He wished she would get worse. Even a little. But she didn't, she apparently couldn't, she was unable to find that action in her body. To say or do something that would start him on the decline toward disinterest. It didn't seem like it would happen anytime soon.

He breathed a painful sign of relief when he found the red flag. Something of faith, something that always made him feel uneasy. But, no, it wasn't a flag, it was only a herring. No, she was tolerant. Yes. Tolerant. Open, jaded, edgy, she had an edge, there was edge. Beyond the veil of purity and loveliness, underneath that fresh truth, he was learning of all the things he dreaded. All the things he thought, all the things he agreed with. And the things he liked, dear god, the things he liked. The ways in which he spent his time, the ways in which he cared. It was on the surface and underneath, it was in the core. It was bumming cigarettes and The Shins and alcoholic fathers. It was the death of friends. It was No, go on, I like listening to you.

He picked and pried at things at which he could continue to pick. He tried in vain. Because there were none. Not now, at least. And the things that were there were so big and little and important and insignificant and all of them good that they could outshine and weigh them all, all those others, they would, he was sure of it. And he hated himself. He hated this situation, all too familiar, one he'd be in before and one he'd be in again and he could not have her. Not then, he knew, and probably (possibly?), he thought, not ever.

He feared. He doted and he feared. With every question and answer and match he brought to her lips and way he found to touch her he could feel himself getting nearer, getting sucked in, getting attached to an immovable object. And he wondered why he always did this. Why he couldn't see a beautiful girl and learn her beautiful ways and just be happy with what was and not what might or could and never would be. And he wondered why he thought it never would be. Things change, he thought. Always. Things always change, always, that's what they do. People, everything, always.

And he wondered why he couldn't focus on that, on that possibility. But if he did, he knew, he knew it was a slippery slope and he was already scratching for balance. He was flailing. Always flailing. And there she was, smiling at him, beautiful. And she had no idea.