She's standing on the corner of 9th and Pine, scraping her toes impatiently across the pavement. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and the wind that's seeping slowly into her bones. She's shaking like fall's last stubborn leaves, which are fluttering and falling quietly around her. The sun is slowly setting, signaling for the night to settle over the sleepy city. She wraps her arms more tightly across her shrinking frame and thinks longingly about some home she once had. Or once felt. Or something. Distraction is a skill she's vowed to master but she's a novice, nonetheless.
At long last, a figure approaches from the shadows and the grey, growing and growing. A familiar gait elicits an un-welcomed twinge of longing. She drops her smoke and watches it fall to the concrete, scattering dying sparks.
Saying nothing and everything, he steals a long, hard look, peering into her amber eyes and burning a hole through her timid soul. His sincerity frightens her and pleases her just the same. She curses herself, but mostly him, for making her feel.
Saying too little and thinking too much, they walk side by side, listening to the rhythm in their strides and the crunch of leaves underfoot. Hands nestled in pockets, speaking volumes in silence, they're walking, not running.
(They're running from something, though they couldn't tell you what.)
They watch as their breath escape through quivering lips, visible in the November evening, which is growing darker still.
He glances over from time to time, trying hard to read her frozen face. He knows her mind is somewhere else. Her eyes stare, unfocused, and her brow furrows, ever so slightly. He's never seen such a beautiful, sad creature in all of his life. He wants her and he needs her, though he would never admit. (To the latter, that is.)
A flash of her milk body stretched across their bed, sound asleep. Thin strands of auburn hair sticking to her cheek, which glisten with fresh tears. A gentle flick of a finger, and he brushes them away and kisses her eyes, softly.
Their daydreams carry them to a dusty stoop--a doorway. A dingy, filthy shit-hole. Neglecting to knock, they cross the threshold and are met by stale air and an even staler man. His milky, blue eyes startle her. They look so lifeless. So vacant. He's all sallow flesh stretched over sinking cheeks and creaking bones. His lips are cracked and bleeding and spit crusts grotesquely at the corners of his mouth. Her stomach sinks as she thinks of her fate and of fading. Of the fate of the boy that she loves and their fate, together. This is the problem: the thinking. The needless questioning and ceaseless wondering. The worry, the fear, the regret. The choice is not hers, as far as she's concerned.
She watches the two men disappear down a dim hallway, and, forgetting where she is, breathes in for too long. The stench, or the sickness, causes hot bile to rise in her throat. She counts in seconds to 149 until he emerges, glittering goods in tow. They leave quickly, muttering hurried goodbyes to the man, who says something, but the door slams shut first.
And so, towards home they hastily go, quickening their pace until they've nearly broken into a run. They're not afraid to die and they're not afraid to live. They're just afraid to be without each other and the chemicals that keep them from falling apart at the seams. From puking and shitting and splitting pains, deep in their weakening bones.
She sits crossed legged on the couch with razor and mirror, cutting their livelihood into two, long lines, saving half for breakfast. He watches her, trying his best to stifle the guilt that he can't help feeling. She's too beautiful for this. Too rare. He hates that he's corrupted the innocence which clings still fast to her delicate face. Her sad eyes bore into his and he shrinks from her gaze. She briefly admires her handiwork before expertly taking her line. Eyes watering and nostrils stinging, the pain is soon greeted by a soothing warmth which washes slowly and fluidly over her body, relieving the pressure built up over a hard day's wait. Her eyes close and her head lolls to the side. A sigh escapes and curls into a smile of quiet satisfaction. He follows her lead, clearing the glass in one, swift movement. Leaning back, he falls for hours before sinking deeply into cushion and contentment. He grabs her hand and holds tight until his muscles change their own minds. And they lay together, half-asleep and half-dead. All entwined, hearts slow-beating in unison. Imagining some soft, white place where they can be alone forever but know cannot exist.
