Thu, 19 May 2005

like chains
He was still, after the years, the tiniest bit sweet on her. Not enough to proposition, or even truly want to, but just enough to daydream while wandering around the grocery store, forgetting all the things he needed to buy, dreaming of some other life where everything was slightly different. This is a dream he cannot think too deeply on, as all the things which kept them apart in the real (children, location, money) were waiting behind the memories, so that every time he had this dream it was in the same house, empty the only time he was ever actually inside, but filled in the dream with endless small decorations and objects, the sun coming in through the front bay windows, as it was always late afternoon, and the windows were open and there was just a bit of a chill in the air. He was sitting at the kitchen table, at her right-hand side, and sometimes they would talk about any number of things, but sometimes they would just sit. Maybe their hands would brush against each other, or she would touch his left shoulder, and sometimes back in the real, standing in front of the soup, he would stop for a minute and let this illusory touch linger for a moment, let it sink into him, but that awareness would pull him back out and into his body, the small basket in his right hand, and he wouldn’t try to hold on the way he sometimes did when people who were no longer alive met him in his sleep, he would just let it go. He could tell you it wasn’t sadness, the feeling that remained once the daydream had ended, but beyond that he couldn’t describe it, couldn’t tell you what it meant, and it shook from him as soon as he reached for the can of chicken and wild rice. That’s the extent to which he was sweet on her.
(12:24.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #