“I don’t know what to do,” she said to him, looking down. He watched her melancholy mood spread like black matter across the floor to where he sat. He fell inside of the darkness as though it were a black hole.
“I don’t either,” he replied, rubbing his hands back and forth over jean-covered thighs.
Five years of being together, and they still had no idea why they should stay together or why they should part. The question of love was variable.
The large windows from the loft hang suspended in the temper of the room. They looked outside, but dared not to leave. The karmic pull to understand each other made the room spin like a top with invisible threads, tightening and releasing.
Over the course of their relationship, she had threatened to cheat on him three times, and he had ignored her threats. The one was connected to the other, but the excuse failed to appease him, and she was not the appeasing type.
She looked at the grains of the hardwood floor. The realities they shared entered and eluded her at the same time—for the sake of her mood, which shifted from sadness toward a cliff of sheer anger. She knew if she spoke again her words would form as a shrill attack against his inability to make a decision.
He watched as her pale face and chest flushed into splotches of crimson, and his fingertips grew warm, pulsing with the memory of her hot flesh.
“What do you want to fucking do?” She said, knowing he hated it when she cursed.
“I don’t fucking know! Maybe you should think about what you’ve done,” he shouted.
“That would suit you. I suppose you think you haven’t done anything?”
They both knew their argument was following the same pattern it always did, but neither one knew how to stop it.
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Do you think you haven’t done anything?”
“I think it’s all my fault, and I’m terribly sorry.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Everything. Go away.”
“Go away,” she laughed underneath her breath. She could never simply “go away.” Blood sank to her feet like pools of liquid lead. Her fingernails felt dirty. Her nipples, once his lone assassins, stared at him now without bullets. He laughed at the idea of human parts feeling loneliness.
“What are you laughing at?” Her voice quivered. He searched her deep blue eyes, but he didn’t answer. She placed her arms underneath her armpits, and the damp warmth distracted her for a moment. When he looked away from her eyes, the loft took on the blue mist of her hopelessness. She jerked her hands down, pissed at herself for finding solace in her own physical juice.
“Damnit, you fucking asshole!”
He looked up at her from the black hole filled with blue mist, and his red fingertips reached for her. He knew she had thought of fucking someone else more times than he could know, yet nothing seemed more important than how the beige wall formed a frame around her colorful face when they fucked, when his cock owned her.