the silence of sound
Eunhyuk/Tablo (Super Junior/Epik High)
G. 427 words.
Something short and simple inspired by wobaozhewo's Can Every Time I Breathe In Be Every Time You Breathe Out? Thanks for the (unwitting) inspiration, Kei!
The television is a window in the living room rumbling with indistinct voices and the static of transmission. Recorded laughter, synthetic sounds. The sound is muted by the bathroom door.
Your head is tipped forward, chin to your chest, and - there! - the dark roots of your hair peek through at the nape of your neck, where the baby hairs grow soft and delicate, revealed in the natural part of wet hair. Your hair is so long now. It reaches in dark blonde tendrils down your neck, paler than I ever remember, little wet snakes against the picture frame of your collarbones. A damp kiss centered where your scalp meets your neck, and then I set to washing you.
I can't draw or paint; my art is the manipulation of language. I do instead what I feel like: tracing the shiny knobs of your shoulders and the slippery bumps of your curved spine with soap, waxy white flakes smearing on your skin. You stay silent. I think you might have fallen asleep. Curled forward and cat-napping in the tub, where tiny ripples shiver around my elbows.
Your hands rest on my knees beneath the water until I'm done with my masterpiece, then your fingertips tap out some odd rhythm against my kneecaps while I sluice the water over your back, scrubbing the streaky soap from your pale skin going raw-pink.
Your tsunami strikes the sides of the tub in violent miniature waves when you stand. You drip from your outstretched arm like rain from a gutter after a storm, and I run the towel over your body, rubbing briskly at your hair until you steal the towel and do the same to me. The water in the tub gurgles on the way down, and the door, swollen with steam, sticks in the frame like I thought it would.
We leave damp footprints against the carpet, and slide onto the bed, throwing the pillows to the bedroom floor. I pull you close and grasp your uncurling hand to kiss your shriveled fingertips. You grin and your eyes slip closed even as you hook a finger over my bottom lip. It leaves a small wet spot at my hip when you come closer and sling your arm across my body, tucking yourself around me.
My nose is buried in your neck, and you smell clean and fresh. It's the scent of cheap soap, college days, and nostalgia for something that has yet to happen. It's the scent of you and me. I breathe in, deep, and exhale, satisfied.
G. 427 words.
Something short and simple inspired by wobaozhewo's Can Every Time I Breathe In Be Every Time You Breathe Out? Thanks for the (unwitting) inspiration, Kei!
The television is a window in the living room rumbling with indistinct voices and the static of transmission. Recorded laughter, synthetic sounds. The sound is muted by the bathroom door.
Your head is tipped forward, chin to your chest, and - there! - the dark roots of your hair peek through at the nape of your neck, where the baby hairs grow soft and delicate, revealed in the natural part of wet hair. Your hair is so long now. It reaches in dark blonde tendrils down your neck, paler than I ever remember, little wet snakes against the picture frame of your collarbones. A damp kiss centered where your scalp meets your neck, and then I set to washing you.
I can't draw or paint; my art is the manipulation of language. I do instead what I feel like: tracing the shiny knobs of your shoulders and the slippery bumps of your curved spine with soap, waxy white flakes smearing on your skin. You stay silent. I think you might have fallen asleep. Curled forward and cat-napping in the tub, where tiny ripples shiver around my elbows.
Your hands rest on my knees beneath the water until I'm done with my masterpiece, then your fingertips tap out some odd rhythm against my kneecaps while I sluice the water over your back, scrubbing the streaky soap from your pale skin going raw-pink.
Your tsunami strikes the sides of the tub in violent miniature waves when you stand. You drip from your outstretched arm like rain from a gutter after a storm, and I run the towel over your body, rubbing briskly at your hair until you steal the towel and do the same to me. The water in the tub gurgles on the way down, and the door, swollen with steam, sticks in the frame like I thought it would.
We leave damp footprints against the carpet, and slide onto the bed, throwing the pillows to the bedroom floor. I pull you close and grasp your uncurling hand to kiss your shriveled fingertips. You grin and your eyes slip closed even as you hook a finger over my bottom lip. It leaves a small wet spot at my hip when you come closer and sling your arm across my body, tucking yourself around me.
My nose is buried in your neck, and you smell clean and fresh. It's the scent of cheap soap, college days, and nostalgia for something that has yet to happen. It's the scent of you and me. I breathe in, deep, and exhale, satisfied.