Skip to main content

Piece of Rough

The sun was streaming in through long sun yellow drapes. I laid with my back towards the window the weight of his body making me sink further into the red overstuffed cushions. My chest was his pillow and his arms cradled the side of my body. We were both turned towards the T.V. watching 3:10 to Yuma. I didn't like westerns, but he insisted it was a great movie. I was beginning to dose when I felt his lips against mine.

"You're not supposed to be sleeping, you're supposed to be watching the movie," he mumbled against my lips.

"But I'm so comfortable."

I nuzzled his bottom lip with my own.

"You watch the movie, I'll take a little nap," I said stifling a yawn.

I scooted further down on the couch. The curve of my back becoming parallel with the couch. His long legs hung over the arm rest, but he stayed where he was. I ran my fingers up the back of his shaggy brown hair and  let them rest on his neck. I could feel my eyes beginning to droop again. They felt heavy each blink seeming harder and harder to reopen. The drone from the air conditioner was the white noise lulling me to sleep, while his body's warmth blanketed me from the cool air. Each breath I took got me closer and closer to the nap my body seemed to need.

"I love you."

My breath stopped short, 3:10 to Yuma was in the middle of a gun fight, and my sleepy comfort had just disappeared. I scooted up my back forming the question mark that must have been mirrored on my face. He looked back at me, his blue eyes clear in their meaning.

"I mean it you know. I know its soon, but I do. All I have to do to feel happy is look into your eyes and I know."

Still I stared into his eyes knowing that he believed what he was saying. Still I stared back not knowing what to say. Still I stared back not knowing how long I could wait before I had to say something.

I saw his face getting closer to mine and felt the press of his lips. My lips kissed back half heartedly and I thought surely he knew something was wrong. He stopped kissing me, but kept his face close. His eyes boring into mine. My mouth felt dry and I tried to swallow. I also saw when the bright light dimmed from my lack of answer.

"It's okay, you don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know."

I heard the words as they left his lips, but knew that he didn't mean them.

"I care about you. I do," I cupped the side of his face, my hand cradling his unshaven face. "But, I'm not there yet. I don't know when I will be. I love you. I'm just not in love with you. But, I do. I love you Chris."

I felt like the more I said it, the better it would sound. But, even as the words kept coming I knew that I had lost my way and perhaps would have been better off  not saying anything. The light was not coming back, and I had done that. I didn't know what else to do, so I pulled his face towards mine. I kissed him and felt the mirror reluctance of my previous kiss. I kissed him harder hoping that maybe I could kiss away all the words that had just been said. Slowly he began to respond. I fisted my fingers into his hair and wrapped my legs around his hips pulling him closer. Its the only thing I could do. The only thing I knew how to do.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time? ...

Scene 1. Act 2. Line 53.

I am told that I am good at writing dialogues. Perhaps that's the reason when it comes to interacting with people the words that I want to hear, the words I already have written in my head are ready, but when they don't come out I am often disappointed. What happened to that perfect phrase I had in my head? What happened? Why are they silent? Or, where did that come from? I find myself left with wanting more, or needing less, or simply being in a state of unfamiliarity. Why? You might ask? Because there are very few times when what I have written in my mind is translated well into real life. Real life is not scripted. Repeat. Real life is not scripted. Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this...

Para Las Nietas

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...