Out of
Touch.
(“I can still hear you saying you must never break the chain…” –Fleetwood
Mac)
He never says a word when
he unlocks the door. The heavy deadbolt clicks open and a gasp of
oppressively humid air will rush in behind him. Against my cool skin it
feels like a clammy hand, but I am always quick to quell the shudders that
threaten to race through me. He’ll say not a word, but lift his eyes from
their spot on the floor before choosing to focus on something else.
Sometimes his full lower lip will quiver slightly just before I see the
faintest glimpse of white teeth pulling at the tender skin.
He might strip quickly and
head for the shower, tossing the expensive bottles of toiletries into the
marble wastebasket, in favor of using his old standbys. Again, the thin
fingers of heat will slither under the door, curling and nipping at my ankles,
leaving thin trickles of dew in their wake. The water will pound
relentlessly for what seems like hours, before I finally hear the groan of the
faucet shutting off and the smooth swish of the shower curtain as it is thrown
aside.
It is in those final
moments that I grow lightheaded and sick with anticipation. It is
impossible to read the man; he plays his deck with his hand clutched tightly to
his chest, his eyes stony and unreadable.
When that door finally
opens his skin will be raw and red, angry and glistening and flushed, crying
out for a tender touch. Tender is no longer in his vocabulary. It
has been replaced with harsh words like vacant, distant, detached.
He champions his own drama. Some nights, when the day has been long and
drawn out and his body aches, he’ll collapse on the bed and throw his body
haphazardly against the thick down comforter, pulling the plush blue fabric up
to his chin. I’ll sit, in the cool blue silence, waiting for hours, watching
his gaunt chest rise and fall in the rhythm of sleep. Half the time I hardly notice the tears as they begin to streak down
my cheeks, until I draw in a heaving gasp and taste their salt on my tongue.
Maybe later he’ll open his
eyes, when the red lights of the clock blink
And some times I can feel
him watching me, hear his jilted breath as he crouches meekly on the floor, his
long limbs contorted like a spider’s, his honeyed hair falling into his eyes.
“Reese…Marissa…Reesie…”
It is with everything in
me that I try to block the sound of his voice. On nights like those I
want, more than anything, to be back in our stupid little neighborhood, playing
childish games like spin-the-bottle and freeze tag, and God, ANYTHING but this
wicked game I’m caught up in now.
The hardest nights of all
are when he knows I’m here, without question. Those nights, he’ll sob
into the fluffy white pillows, muffling the sound of his cries, but sitting
right next to him I can hear clearly what he’s saying.
“Why…come back…miss
you…love you…need you…”
I never believed in ghosts
before. I thought it was a silly little whim of some overly lonely
fifty-year-old man who decided that his new companions would be spirits of
old. So many stupid movies and plays and songs and books have been
written on the subject, and not once did I believe that the tales were true.
So it shocks me most of
all to be sitting not three inches from the love of my life, and know that my
physical being is rotting in a box six feet under the earth’s surface.
I ache for him. My
heart breaks with every whispered entreaty, every hushed cry, every longing glance at the picture of us he still keeps
tacked up in every hotel room he visits. It is all I can do not to run my
fingers through that wild hair and brush my lips against his brow, the way I
did not so long ago.
**
“Baby, you’re home…”
Marissa Williams
clapped her hands and cried out in delight as her boyfriend hurled himself into
her arms.
“Reese,” He
breathed. “I missed you…” His hold tightened around her waist, his nose
gravitating to it’s favorite hiding spot just above
her collarbone.
Reese could feel the
tension, the utter exhaustion in his body, and she gently tilted his face up to
hers.
Her blue eyes filled
with sympathy at the need she saw reflected in the depth of his gaze.
“Josh,” She
whispered. “You’re exhausted…”
He nodded, running his
fingers along the coarse fabric of her skirt, content his satisfy his need for
contact slowly. Closing his eyes, he leaned down and brushed his lips
against hers, relearning the taste and texture of her skin, snaking his tongue
out to lick gingerly at her mouth, moaning softly as she gently returned the
contact.
“I love you baby,” He
said quietly. “I need…”
“Shhhhh...” She
admonished him gently, dotting kisses across his closed eyelids, teasing her
fingers through his hair, “I’m right here…”
**
There are times when I
miss him so much I can actually taste it…sharp and bitter, like lime but less
sweet, like onion but less firm, like…him. He rolls over in his sleep and
moans softly, drawing in a shaky gasp of air, and cuddles closer to the lumpy
pillow.
God.
Josh. I miss you.
**
It’s always the
same. I wake up alone, with her scent searing my nostrils and my tongue
salivating for her touch. She feels so damn close I can taste it, but so
far away that my body practically shivers with cold. I can’t believe it’s
been seven months now. I can’t believe she’s never coming back. I
can’t believe she’s dead.
The guys have just about
given up on me. They’ve gone past the point of friendship to where they
can no longer sympathize with me. I haven’t made it easy on them, I know, but I
expected a stronger support network when push came to shove. Perhaps,
then, things that do not affect *NSYNC do not concern them.
I always found it funny
that Chris was the one to watch me the closest, when I was going crazy and
staying up all night and begging God to end it all so I wouldn’t have to hurt
another day. Out of all of the guys I suppose I’m closest to Justin, but
when Marissa died he was the first one to step away. I think his sense of
detachment is so finely calibrated that any sort of real emotion strikes him as
completely foreign.
Chris, on the other hand,
hovered around me like a shadow, showing up when I was a hair’s width away from
falling apart, or when I held the bottle of pills in my hand, contemplating my
own mortality.
“JC…” He said gently, and
for the first time in a long time his voice was serious, “Put those away.
That’s not gonna help matters any.”
I argued with him,
spouting off about rejoining my love in the stars or some other idealistic
bullshit, when he grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, hard.
“What the hell are you
talking about, man? She’s gone. Now you can either deal with it or
you can make a mockery of her life by ending your own. It’s your choice,
dude. Don’t fuck it up.”
I’m still wondering if I
made the right decision.
It had taken me two years
to admit that I loved Marissa, and two seconds for some drunk
bastard to take it all away. There are nights
when the pain is so real and so intense it knocks me backward onto my bed, and
I lay there, trembling, until my exhausted body collapses into sleep.
There are nights when the memories are so vivid I can feel her beside me,
holding my body close to hers, indulging in her heat, feeling her smooth curves
and gentle slopes. And then there are nights, like tonight, when I fool
myself into thinking she’s sitting right here with me…and my eyes play vicious,
foolish games and I can see her, sitting, crying in the corner, reaching out to
me with milky white arms.
God.
Reese. I miss you.
© 2001 ~A.