[places where lovers have wings]
Okay, so this is what I'm going to read tomorrow night. It's a slightly lengthened version of what I wrote for karabou, and, for the purposes of this, I've decided to call it places where lovers have wings.
“It's kind of a love story.”
“What is?”
“This.”
“Oh, don't go getting all romantic on me now, pet.”
"Fairy princess" is just something that she tells people because it's easier than "infinite". She isn't sure what his excuse might be. If she gave it too much thought, she might think that it was funny (the people that you end up with or the things that people do to be loved). They have a carriage to themselves, more or less, and under the table she has her bare feet in his lap, and over the table he invents oddities with elastic bands and matchsticks, sticking plasters and mints with holes in the middle. She doesn't know quite what any of those things does...she isn't sure that he does either but, for all either of them know, one of those little things might predict the future, whcih would come in handy. They don't know anything about this except for how it all turns out (she is troubled by prophetic dreams, but only ever the last half. She wonders if somebody else is getting all of the beginnings).
They haven't slept together yet (sometimes he falls asleep with his head pillowed on her, but that isn't what she means at all) but, if you didn't know that you might wonder about the way that they pass the bottle half full of Gin back and forth. It isn't always gin and it isn't always trains. Today she has bare feet and she's wearing one of his t-shirts and she's watching him get drunker. It's around midday. She can't quite remember where it is that they're going; New York Chicago Denver Boston New Orleans San Fran...no. Maybe. Some place with tall buildings instead of trees. Maybe there'll be a break after this. Maybe she'll make it down Mexico way, and he'll take her swimming in that deep blue water. Maybe he'll kiss her when both of them have wet hair and salt on their lips. Maybe not. At night, with her head on his chest, she has nightmares about her wrists bound with wire, something lifting her off her feet, no wings, but he's always there, shadow dancing, his heartbeat like a drum, and he whispers to her I'll miss you when you go, don't go so she doesn't, and he's sort of unsteady, skinny-hipped and lovely and, stupid as it seems, she'd trust him with her whole life. He tells her stories about places that she's relatively sure he's never been; Sydney harbour in the dark, and the Taj Mahal in the rain, dancing with a girl in red skirts and dirty ankles on the Rialto bridge. With precision (he's so used to being drunk that it makes him more careful. He functions better that way), he rolls her t-shirt (his t-shirt) up and under her breasts. He likes that her belly isn't flat, has a soft curve. It gives pleasantly when he writes on her. "MOVING ISN'T ENOUGH". His handwriting is so beautiful that it's surprising, even upside down.
"What is?" she says.
"I don't know." And he bends his head to kiss her belly and imagines a river there, winding south.
"So when do you get to be the Fairy Queen?" he says later, an elastic band stretched almost to its limits between his fingers. Sometimes, she catches him looking at her with his eyes slightly uncofused as though he's trying to make out the sudden glitter of wings. There's a long of things that they don't tell each other. "Mamet" sounds like a made up name to her. The facts: she dreams of a skull cracked open and blood that freezes before it dries. On the first night that they sleep together (which will feel somehow feel accidental, when it happens), there will be no dreams, which will be either better or worse. On the day that he guesses is her birthday, he will present her with a pair of wings made out of drinking straws and paper napkins, glitter clinging to the pads of his fingers and it will be marvellous or ridiculous, depending on who you are.
She sort of loves him for the things that he does. It's the last thing that she expected.
"Soon, Pet. Very soon," she says, and the train is ratta-tatta dreaming North North North.
“It's kind of a love story.”
“What is?”
“This.”
“Oh, don't go getting all romantic on me now, pet.”
"Fairy princess" is just something that she tells people because it's easier than "infinite". She isn't sure what his excuse might be. If she gave it too much thought, she might think that it was funny (the people that you end up with or the things that people do to be loved). They have a carriage to themselves, more or less, and under the table she has her bare feet in his lap, and over the table he invents oddities with elastic bands and matchsticks, sticking plasters and mints with holes in the middle. She doesn't know quite what any of those things does...she isn't sure that he does either but, for all either of them know, one of those little things might predict the future, whcih would come in handy. They don't know anything about this except for how it all turns out (she is troubled by prophetic dreams, but only ever the last half. She wonders if somebody else is getting all of the beginnings).
They haven't slept together yet (sometimes he falls asleep with his head pillowed on her, but that isn't what she means at all) but, if you didn't know that you might wonder about the way that they pass the bottle half full of Gin back and forth. It isn't always gin and it isn't always trains. Today she has bare feet and she's wearing one of his t-shirts and she's watching him get drunker. It's around midday. She can't quite remember where it is that they're going; New York Chicago Denver Boston New Orleans San Fran...no. Maybe. Some place with tall buildings instead of trees. Maybe there'll be a break after this. Maybe she'll make it down Mexico way, and he'll take her swimming in that deep blue water. Maybe he'll kiss her when both of them have wet hair and salt on their lips. Maybe not. At night, with her head on his chest, she has nightmares about her wrists bound with wire, something lifting her off her feet, no wings, but he's always there, shadow dancing, his heartbeat like a drum, and he whispers to her I'll miss you when you go, don't go so she doesn't, and he's sort of unsteady, skinny-hipped and lovely and, stupid as it seems, she'd trust him with her whole life. He tells her stories about places that she's relatively sure he's never been; Sydney harbour in the dark, and the Taj Mahal in the rain, dancing with a girl in red skirts and dirty ankles on the Rialto bridge. With precision (he's so used to being drunk that it makes him more careful. He functions better that way), he rolls her t-shirt (his t-shirt) up and under her breasts. He likes that her belly isn't flat, has a soft curve. It gives pleasantly when he writes on her. "MOVING ISN'T ENOUGH". His handwriting is so beautiful that it's surprising, even upside down.
"What is?" she says.
"I don't know." And he bends his head to kiss her belly and imagines a river there, winding south.
"So when do you get to be the Fairy Queen?" he says later, an elastic band stretched almost to its limits between his fingers. Sometimes, she catches him looking at her with his eyes slightly uncofused as though he's trying to make out the sudden glitter of wings. There's a long of things that they don't tell each other. "Mamet" sounds like a made up name to her. The facts: she dreams of a skull cracked open and blood that freezes before it dries. On the first night that they sleep together (which will feel somehow feel accidental, when it happens), there will be no dreams, which will be either better or worse. On the day that he guesses is her birthday, he will present her with a pair of wings made out of drinking straws and paper napkins, glitter clinging to the pads of his fingers and it will be marvellous or ridiculous, depending on who you are.
She sort of loves him for the things that he does. It's the last thing that she expected.
"Soon, Pet. Very soon," she says, and the train is ratta-tatta dreaming North North North.