Words about Bee
“Give me something to believe in.” Her eyes touched my lips and I felt her breath become shallow. I was a coffin filled with regret, buried underneath her floorboards.
“She came out of nowhere, really.” That’s what I told my parents at Thanksgiving. They saw my cracked lips and my puffy eyes from not sleeping, but avoided eye contact.
“She will come next year or maybe when it gets a little warmer. Bee has the bones of a bird,” I tell them. Nervous smiles and a changed subject. Wind howls outside. A gun goes off in the distance and everyone starts talking politics. Pretending to care. Eating faster so they can go home and masturbate in the comfort of their own homes.
Can’t imagine any of these strangers being happy with who they are, or who they hold at night.
I could taste the scotch on my toothbrush from last night and my undershirt still smelled of cigarettes. I wondered who bled on my shoe.
“When will you be back?” Bee’s voice was almost inaudible, her eyes the color of snow that had been sitting by the side of the road for too many days, black and filled with rocks and footprints.
I almost felt bad for her.
So I left.
