I looked down across my chest at her. Couldn’t tell how long we were there, because I failed trying to count time watching the frequency with which she blinked. Smirked for all of the times she had feigned anger at me because my eyelashes were longer than hers.
I watched her trace whatever cut or contour she could find south of my collarbones. Thought about how lucky I was that she wasn’t the type who needed me to be in shape. Maybe she thought a fat guy would be easier to chase.
I watched her drown out the noise we always tried to fill the room with; watched her press her right ear against my left lung like Martin was inside of it preaching about his dreams, or maybe Stevie was singing about ribbons or bad math affirmations. I watched her try to learn new rhythm, like she only knew how to translate love into a movement or a song. She struggled trying to hear my life for melodies that had bounced enough off of soft things that they were little more than heavy air.
I wondered if she thought less of me when all she could hear was the aftermath of a rally, my insides home to little more than tumbleweed blowing across the feet of the Lincoln Memorial — when I was more clean-up crew than concert.
But she stayed, listened to my heartbeats strike and kick-drum through my ribs — echoing like her high heels in long empty hallways. I watched her try to calm them silently, like she could hear ventricular wings growing, like she hear from flutter that I’d fly away soon.
NMH, Freewrite 1.9.14