HIS TURN
A person would do anything to hold on if it meant never being lonely. He matched up the words until what he saw on the horizon was a perfect measurement in description of the kind of shoreline he desired to see in the distance.
Beaches.
A beacon, a lighthouse light directing the coffin to safe shores.
In this night, the moon finally there, MOONLIGHT, something he had missed the most, if one could really miss anything now.
A skyscraper.
Another skyscraper.
A series of smaller but visible buildings lining the area between skyscrapers.
SOUND and another SOUND.
It didn’t matter what those sounds were as long as they were sounds, something indicative of society.
He crafted the city landscape from out at sea. He could almost taste the smell of fried dough, the kind you could smell in heavy clouds when walking the boardwalk of any popular beach.
He wanted to sense something even if it meant tasting what was normally smelled, smelling what was normally tasted.
Most of all, he wanted to hold on.
He bargained for this to be where they would be.
Here, between any real place, the nonexistence, the area inside walls. Whatever it might be called, he leaned toward never letting go. Now that would seem impossible, sure.
And it would be, but don’t let the hopeless-suddenly-hopeful ghost kill a romance before the romance really started.
He again turned toward her and held back. Before there could be any concern, he touched her lips to his. They kissed and in that single sign of affection, he handed her everything he saw.
When they touched lips again, it wasn’t a kiss. They held lips, suctioned them tightly around both mouths, and waited until tongues touched. Waited some more until the tongues began to move, switching places. Tongues so tight he could hear the voice returning to him, the gruff and often growling voice climbing back into his throat, and her cheery voice leaving.
But that couldn’t be it. It wasn’t enough.
In order to hold on, he needed more than just his hands, and she needed more than just her face. They needed to return everything they had borrowed. They needed to be themselves.
He opened his mouth to speak, and told her.
It was no longer merely talk of the mind. It was talk.
It was telling.
HER TURN
With the borrowed now having fully become hers, they brought themselves close and mended all that needed mending. First they turned to the coffin, recognizing that their pairing must have been on purpose, meant to be, because there was only the one coffin.
The coffin shook as she spoke in her own voice, the words that do not matter much for this tale, outside of this manic moment, so they will not show up here.
The quick and plain decision was that as long as they weren’t alone, they decided to hold on, and holding on involved caulking the coffin, not letting the invisible water sink them.
She cut her arm, but only after telling him that she would.
He nodded and did the same. Cut arms, they brought color to the once-invisible water. They used their hands for good, cupping the water and splashing it overboard. Did this for quite some time until the water lowered.
Next she felt every square inch of the fabric of the coffin for hairline cracks while he examined all four sides. With their own bare hands, they plugged the holes with pieces of their skin, be it from their forearm or their thighs, their bodies were now theirs to use how they saw fit.
In celebration they paired up whatever was left of their senses with whatever was left of their bodies.
Afterwards, the sex that she had desired for so long, the sex she never experienced in life, felt perfunctory. She dismissed the feeling in favor of the fact that it was still the sex that she had craved. It was the sex that only he could give her. Perhaps the expectations exceeded the actual act. What she was surely positive of was the fact that she cared for him, and cared for him deeply.
She was glad that it had been with him rather than someone else. And when it came time to speak without restriction, the result of having held on so long, the speech returned to her and him, it was surprising to find that both chose the same three words they had said countless times:
“I love you.”
If this was all they could be, they would take it.
Inevitable though it was, letting go, they held on and it was a holding on that involved facing themselves.
More they did, they sensed and smelled and swore that they had never borrowed, they were satisfied enough with sharing their solitude, this purgatory. This aftermath.
Demise would be the setting of their romance.
Their romance would be spacious “I love you’s” in the waiting room between life and death. They would love and be genuine at a time when no one was genuine, at a time when time elapsed and people, everyone, the masses let go.
And by that it could only mean finally letting go, seeing how life is a series of escapes and ledges, an admirable duration of holding on. Hold and be held, that is life.
And this, this is death. There could be no love without first being a death.
FEAR
HIS TURN
Having bargained to hold on, he now feared how much left he had to lose. No question about it, there would be loss. He feared the coming dawn. Nightfall wouldn’t last for much longer.
This, her in his arms, would not last much longer.
She shivered when he didn’t shiver, and he had begun to shiver nonstop. But at least they had faced themselves and could say anything to each other to shelter each other from their fears.
His fear grew with each turn, and he answered before she could ask, “Yeah, we’re having fun.”
Much like a hero in any other story, he needed to feel like he had the power to make a difference. He
The tale goes on like this. It gets darker. It invokes fear in both him and her. The conditions quickly turn merciless.
The role may be fake, and it is, but it is his strongest hold, the only means of holding on. It will get so much worse the more they are willing to admit to their demise.
She leaned into his arms, a cuddle that was kind and gentle. Too bad he couldn’t enjoy her company.
He was too concerned, as if he could now see the coastline, and a line of riflemen aimed at them, looking to pull the trigger and force them to let go. He had to protect her.
His biggest fear was that he would slip away and yet she would remain. Alone.
Neither could face the feeling of loneliness. Never could.
A protector, fatherly and of a far-fetched sort, he held her more than she held him back, but it was perfect because it was all they could do. Having so much to say, he couldn’t begin to tell her of what might be watching from the ocean’s depths.
To allay that worry, the worry so real, he treated her with fantasies, “Maybe we can do a duet.” Anything to occupy or entertain her doubled as preoccupation and, when she seemed to believe him, really believe him, he almost forgot where they were.
It could have been a boat and they could have been only a few paddles away from a beach.
“Maybe we can see who is the fastest swimmer, one straight line and back.”
He clicked his tongue.
“Maybe we can fish for new fantasies if none of these worked. We could look for the one that you wanted, the one that is on the tip of my tongue, but I can no longer remember what it was.”