she talks with his hands

In the crowded airport, she signs I love you and Seat 26D and tomorrow I’ll be gone. He finds it hard to hear her when he’s got his avian shades on, so he watches the birdwings behind his eyes and zips their suitcases up and up and up. Hers is red and round and he rubs the scuffs out with the toe of his boot.

Their tickets say Barbados. The ink is rubbing off in the heat of his pocket, until his says bar and dos. Hers just says bad. Despite the signs — the tickets, the sweat, the big one that says, Concourse C is Fucked Because It’s Been Torn Apart, Go Somewhere Else You Dumb Fuck — despite all that, he doesn’t know that she’s leaving him.

That’s a lie. He knows. The way his teeth zip closed every time he says her name. Metal rests in the back of his mouth like a bit. He’d carry her through this if she’d let him, but she’s not that kind of girl. Besides, she needs her hands free to hold sharp objects like pens and steak knives and pithy bits of wit.

They get stopped at security. Her hands say things that aren’t safe, her fingers are threats to him. He wants the right to feel her up in pubic like he used to. He knows what he’d see if his Xray vision was focused, but he keeps his eyes down. Don’t make trouble. Pretend that cylindrical tube is just a hairbrush, a false finger, a bottle of Jack.

At the gate her fingers say Hurry. He’d obey if he knew how. Instead, he lays down on the floor and unbuttons his shirt one tug at a time. She breaks a mirror and curls his vein into a straw. The crimson crystals strain toward her like magnets. She isn’t true North, but she thinks she is and that’s enough belief to change the world. He doesn’t watch her inhale. Doesn’t watch her start to bite her nails into tiny, perfect ends.



Image taken with iphone
Words written at Case Study Coffee
Time Taken 14 minutes
Brain on travel, trains, trips
on the sounds of the inner workings of my brain

This entry was published on January 11, 2012 at 5:53 pm and is filed under Fiction, January, Portland, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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