Apr 2013
She lay with her back to him, face to the wall, says: “Nothing is black and white. All shades of grey. I wanted it to be… just wish it was white.”
She placed the cracks in her voice at calculated places, hoping but no reply expecting. He is usually not aware of her subtleties, the hints to the real state of things, with her. Then he lays his arm around her as he says: “At least it’s grey, not black.”
Her eyes widen in the dark but do not flinch, and she pulls him by his hand closer onto her, wishing it was the only touch she needed to bring her the ultimate comfort that she wanted, that she needed.
“But I’m afraid, the black will seep in and make the grey darker.” She swallows, suppressing her fear for speaking fatalities. “Sometimes it seems like it has and does.”
Silence falls over them as she waits for an answer; the black stylised curls he drew on his wall gaze back at her, with still, reciprocating wonder.
She reminisces to how she drew curls on her own wall, with the artistic charcoal she got for her fifteenth birthday; it was a meagre gift from the one to whom she would lose her virginity barely a few months later. Now, the curls are gone, and her contact with him fell away soon after the fact, reduced only to sporadic visits on her part.
Finally, listening to his steady breathing in sleep, she is convinced he had given up the conversation, feeling comforted that he reassured her enough for now. Her eyes remain open still though; they peer through the darkness as if it held her fortune, solitarily illuminated by the stars shining through the skylight above her. It is relating conflicting prophecies however.
If I was as pure as white, no black could – would contaminate my love for him, she thinks. But white is for virgins and she has been in love before.
© 2006
She placed the cracks in her voice at calculated places, hoping but no reply expecting. He is usually not aware of her subtleties, the hints to the real state of things, with her. Then he lays his arm around her as he says: “At least it’s grey, not black.”
Her eyes widen in the dark but do not flinch, and she pulls him by his hand closer onto her, wishing it was the only touch she needed to bring her the ultimate comfort that she wanted, that she needed.
“But I’m afraid, the black will seep in and make the grey darker.” She swallows, suppressing her fear for speaking fatalities. “Sometimes it seems like it has and does.”
Silence falls over them as she waits for an answer; the black stylised curls he drew on his wall gaze back at her, with still, reciprocating wonder.
She reminisces to how she drew curls on her own wall, with the artistic charcoal she got for her fifteenth birthday; it was a meagre gift from the one to whom she would lose her virginity barely a few months later. Now, the curls are gone, and her contact with him fell away soon after the fact, reduced only to sporadic visits on her part.
Finally, listening to his steady breathing in sleep, she is convinced he had given up the conversation, feeling comforted that he reassured her enough for now. Her eyes remain open still though; they peer through the darkness as if it held her fortune, solitarily illuminated by the stars shining through the skylight above her. It is relating conflicting prophecies however.
If I was as pure as white, no black could – would contaminate my love for him, she thinks. But white is for virgins and she has been in love before.
© 2006
