his hand extended out towards me and i felt the sting of my bony fingers press against his. i wondered if it stung him, too.
"we don't have to," i started.
"no, no. i think we should."
though our legs began to waltz, and our feet jumped back into routine, i couldn't stop looking. at him. his face. the way the light took the grey from each iris and spun it into silver. i remembered the silver; it had always been my silver.
"just look at me," i begged.
"i have been. all night. and glory, faye. you remind me fondly of heaven."
"i meant look at me now, grady. as i am directly before you." the tone in my voice was harsh and demanding.
"do you remember that time we were caught in traffic? we were on our way to dinner--that stupid dinner in oak forest--do you remember?"
"your hair was in those ringlets that i love. the ones that spring with too much heat," he smiled, exposed his teeth, "and it was august," the dance had become less work now, like we weren't even moving at all. "you pulled the tresses of your hair up with pins and ribbons, as i rolled the windows down. i loved watching the tendrils fall. i began realizing that i loved the way each piece brushed your shoulders, and i loved it most when it fell all at once, and covered me, too," he said, "and i started to love you the most that night." he looked up at me. our moving ceased.
"please," my eyes filled with salt water tears, "please stop."
he smiled, and i knew that it pained us both.
"i've tried." his reply was quick, and almost fragmented. suddenly, his right hand let go of my left as the other released my waist. he left me on that wooden floor with each tea light above headlining my personal tragedy. i was alone and weeping. an eye for an eye, i'm sure.
i found this in a little black book that i own. i keep it by my bedside, and sometimes when i can't sleep, i write pieces of sentences and paragraphs, promising myself that i'll come back to them later. i'm not sure where i was going with this one, but it's on my list of to do things to find out.