Her hand was just holding her head up. It had stopped its slide upwards at the cheekbone, and her skin was bulging round the sides of her palm. Her eyes were closed and her eyebrows slightly furrowed, as if she was concentrating. Characteristically, she was gaping, almost gawking, under powerful, worrying sleep. Worrying for me, because of the flickering eyelashes, and the frown - it was an interrupted sleep. Sunlight was curved round her face, highlighting the last few summer’s freckles, and toning, slimming her soft chin. Dark hair, which curled outwards at her neck, was short and choppy like yesterday’s paint brush. The sun only reached the ends of those hairs; only those flicks were highlighted in gold. The shadow that the light hadn’t yet hit, for it was very early morning, was drooping around her eyes, as if pulling the lids even further closed. That shaft of light only touched the bottom of her face, the bottom of her open, plump lip and the bottom of her black hair that rested on the pointiest bit of her skeletal cheek. Her ring and middle finger had been parted by her cheek bone, highlighting it, showing how much it stuck out.
Opposite her I sat, leaning forward, face into my folded arms, on the expensive wooden table. She was close: just an empty cup with a ring of orange juice away; just a car magazine away; just one of her straining forearms away. A simple lean forward and maybe a tip toe too, then I could touch her. Not that far, no, not that far at all. Close enough to slam into her face if I moved too fast. Close enough to hurt her. An impulse, which sprung right from my feet, got stopped by my clenched calves. But those green eyes, mysterious, delicious…I’m so envious; that single white scar, small, barely visible, near her right tear duct; and the white of her peeling skin on her nose, back from her tropical holiday.
Pretending
We were tiled floors; wooden worktops; white shelves and cupboard doors; beige handles; a shiny fridge; round lights and silver lamps; blown up photos; books of the Arts; ironed uniforms; proud certificates; board games; the intellect of Shakespeare sonnet; the look of a Picasso; and the comfort of a stable family, in a stable life, that can afford a stable and horses to match.
The fact was that he wasn’t us. The clash, as my mum would say, was worse than orange and pink. Yet here he was sitting, head in arms, with his creased skin under his shaved hair, in our kitchen. When his head rose, I shut my eyes again. The fear and embarrassment of him discovering my feigned slumber put reins on my curiosity, and only let go when five minutes had passed. The peak was a flash of his profile, gazing out the window, with his mouth in an ‘oh’ oval, frozen in a small moment of surprise, or wonder, or simply another action with no meaning. In the blur of my blink I saw a rough face: pale, but bumpy skin, like it was cold, like it had goose bumps. He was drooped, dropped, lower than relaxed, like a deflated balloon. He shuffled his hands, and I took fright behind my eyelids, the rush of blackness .
The next glance found him face on, staring behind me, not noticing the flicker of an eye. His eyes: always on me, those brown circles, like a half-burnt cake: milky coffee patched with dark chocolate. Sometimes it was a flash of his champagne skin, darker than white, richer than white. And once, a glimpse, a glance, a hint, through blurred, black eyelashes, I saw, in the shape of an orange piece, the better half of a half-smile.
Thinking
It was as if her flickering eyes, caught between embarrassment and curiosity, were the only things separating their worlds. The blushing of the moment disappeared when she realised that the half-smile was a performance for her, showing her that her trip to the theatre was worthwhile, she could move seats, and the obstruction was no more. Both stayed in their positions, watching each other freely, for five minutes or so, a bit of time, a moment in their lives, a while that existed and will always exist. Neither of them struggled with their sleep, even though they might not even see each other again, that night because of rebels’ euphoria and the better half of a half smile.
Mostly, all that I can say is... wow. Amazing. I most definitely would like to read more of your work. I really love the way you use words and how you describe things. Maybe I'm just easily blown away and put into a coma of wonderment, but... I really enjoyed reading that and would, like I said before, love to see some more of your writing.
Borrow money from pessimists- they don't expect it back.
