Fragment

It’s all I have left of her now. Still memories, frozen like photographs fading in the years. When I close my eyes, I’m there again, with her in that apartment. Sitting on the bed, back to the wall, sweat gluing thin cloth to my skin, looking like someone’s poured water over me. A cigarette burns down to the filter between my fingers, reduced to a sliver of ash, waiting, ready to crumble in the next draught that comes through the room.

I watch her move across the floor, her thin dress clinging. Into the kitchen; she takes a can from the fridge and presses the cold metal to her forehead, rolling it back and forth. Something spawns inside me, something primal. My eyes trickle down her body, and I try to will her to come over to where I am. Her eyes pin me, telling me what she wants. In that moment, I love her and I hate her.

I tear myself off the bed. My feet feel like they’re melting into the floor as I move. Before I can think, her hands are on me, and we’re on the ground.  Her sweetness mixed with her sweat is an intoxicating blend, spurring me. My hands push her skirt up, as I move myself down to feast.

Gradually, we become nothing more than two naked bodies, sweating next to each other on the floor. There are no more words, nothing more we can say. Speaking now would make me hate her even more.

I hate her for making me love her.

Floor clings to the skin as I try to follow her up, back into our clothes. I sit there for a moment, watching her graceful movement, feeling her closeness as she crouches back down to turn my face back to hers; her teeth fasten on to my lip. I want to feel her flesh on mine again, but I recognise the kiss. It means there’s no more, nothing left to give. Her arms fold around me, nails pricking my skin. The tiniest squeeze and she draws blood; there’s something symbolic there. I still have the scar.

She talks and her voice fills the room, a soft blanket. I listen, and feel a pang of regret when she stops and it’s my turn. She talks about going into the city for the night, I talk about staying in. She wants to feel night air against her skin, and when she says it, I want it too.

I watch her walk away from me; her head turning back to look at me over her shoulder. Her face in that moment is carved into the walls of my memory. There are times when I need to reach out and touch her face again, I need to look into her eyes and see that everything’s all right, to feel her soft voice around me.

But that was a lifetime ago.

All I have left of her now are these fragments.

2004