Her eyes flashed like lightning, shimmering with forgotten tears as her hands balled into fists. Her jaw clenched as he watched his hands twiddle on the table in front of him. I couldn’t hear his words, I had no idea whether the tears he was evoking were happy tears, sad tears, angry tears or any kind of tears – maybe they are just tears, but tears are always more than tears. He seems unable to take his eyes off his hands; I am reminded of when someone confesses to some horrible deed. Momentarily a flash of light danced across his angelic face, playing on the tracks of his tears like dancing specters.
His mouth moves, a silent prayer and her answer – an inaudible torrent of what read as rage, maybe frustration. I smile to myself as the light of the candles on the table flash in her eyes; daggers aimed directly at his slowly, visually shattering heart. I can see the million little pieces glittering in his eyes, falling like stars – winking out as they splatter on the table top amidst the drying droplets of wax and coffee stains.
Word by silent word I see her shoulders tense, her eyes narrow and her mouth begin opening wider and wider. She is shouting now, rising from her seat in a slow climb but still the music drowns her. Bleeding saline from now vacant eyes she grabs for the coffee cup sitting in front of her and throws the steaming brew in his eyes. Anguish on his face turns the throbbing music into a foul scream, as though acid were running through his veins. I shiver, a primal reaction to the animal rage emanating for the girl – the duet of rage and regret is more that one can stand. He wipes the now cooled coffee from his eyes and stands, apparently preparing to leave. She grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and tosses it into the center of the pit; it was shredded in seconds. Suddenly the sorrow that once danced in the depths of his Kelli green eyes hardened to a rage to rival hers. He begins screaming again, this time a primal howl from the depths of prehistoric past. I shiver again, the scene before me I so delicious in all its dramatic pose. I wonder viciously what the fight is about, dream up possibilities but I know most of them are probably most definitely wrong.
He grabs her suddenly and kisses her – a move so fast, so quintessentially male and dominating that Clark Gable would have stood in awe. She slaps him hard as he throws her away, opening deep fingernail slashes along his cheek. He bleeds, but in the dim lighting it looks more like ink running from beneath his skin, a blackness so dark it glitters like obsidian in the candles. They face off; her left foot slightly positioned behind her right, a fighter’s stance and I wonder what will happen next. It’s a fascinating study, human behavior and I watch with focused, unblinking eyes.
She doesn’t move, not even to breath – somehow the lack of rise and fall in her chest is haunting, especially when I can see her gasping like a landed fish. He is shaking; I can see his hands tremble as he reaches for her. It’s clear he wants her, needs her, misses her even though she has yet to leave him, but it’s also clear that there will be more blood before the end. He squares his shoulders when she steps quickly out of his reach and his mouth forms something similar to “Olive Juice”. I can only imagine the apology, asphyxiating on the words he would like to say as he prays for her to believe him just one more time. She is biting her lower lip now, running her right hand through her hair, a violent motion of frustration and hurt. She too seems to be drowning, floundering in nothing but regret and hate and guilt. I can clearly picture all the times I have witnessed this exact scene with these exact people, they fight like this at least once a week but always there is a different end. Sometimes she forgives him; sometimes they storm off like magnets that have been flipped over to the wrong sides – unable to be even in the same room. I have seen him driving late at night when I walk home, I know he is searching for her – probably ending up on some remote back road thinking he would love to turn the car around but the road is too narrow and she is too proud.
They stand rigid, shoulders tense – every muscle prepared to fight or run, depending on the outcome of this night’s battle. She chews on her lip ring, somehow fidgeting the ball of her tongue ring through the loop that encircles her lip. There is something in her eyes; a certain dead light and she leaves him with a cup of cold coffee and throbbing music. I watch him collapse in a heap of shivering shakes, grasping at the edge of the table but unable to pull himself up to the chair. I wait and watch and wonder until he finds his feet and throws himself into the mosh pit, losing himself in a world where the only thing you feel is the crash of bodies and the pulse of music. He becomes the blood rushing through the body of the underground, pushed along by the constant thump of music, the rasp of broken glass screams and no matter how much you wish they would, this road is too narrow and they are too proud.
