Last night I rushed into the bedroom and slammed on the light. Craig turned to look at me (blearily, he had been asleep) and I, sodden & dripping, could only press a finger to my lips and turn away, repeating lines in my head.
They really should invent waterproof dictaphones:
‘Don’t you see?’ she wanted to say as his madeline fingers twitched away form her mouth. ‘Don’t you see that choosing to kiss this, the whorls near the tip of your middle finger, is how much I love you? I love each square inch enough to kiss’ but his eyes just looked at hers. His, her ghostly reflection, pale & open. Why then was she the one who felt so translucent?
Simon watched her moth-eyes flicker as she chewed her lip & stared at him, at the wall, the ceiling and back, focussing, on him.
“Claire? Claire please?” It had been three days since her last sentence, at least two since her last word. Simon sighed. She could see it in the cold, pale shafts of moonlight, she saw it settle, grey & potent, on their bed, their photos on their dresser, the clothes she never put away. She felt as though they would be buried, by her silence and his sighs.
A twitch of her head and a curtain of hair fell between them.
She felt Simon turn away and lie back down. ‘Maybe tomorrow’ she thought as she stretched her mouth curiously and breathed into the grey black night.