I saw her this afternoon.
She was riding an old black bike that looked of a vintage sufficient to be from back when her Grandmother was a girl. It had gold lettering on it that had cracked and faded, but it just added to the appeal. There's a lot to be said for ageing gracefully...
...but you have to be graceful to begin with.
She had crow feathers in her hair, and a sepia tone cardigan over a Def Leppard tee shirt. Corduroy knee length skirt. Snowboard boots, even though it was the end of Summer. I'm not sure why I'm explaining this, does it make you like her more, or less?
She looked like a polaroid of a girl, the kind you'd find under the newspaper on a shelf in an abandoned house, from a time less fraught with complications. Someones fantasy girl. Not stuck to the bench seat of a V8, next to an as yet unregistered crime statistic; but free, available, the wind in her ears, a rusty chain chorus.
A girl who would break your heart just by riding by. She's like the song you hear from a passing car, that captures you completely, but never tells you its name. Her rusty blonde hair rang out like a siren behind her, like flames, or scattered sand. Like a banner in a language no one can remember, but that fascinates just the same. Maybe even all the more, because of it.
She may never have seen you, but you could spend years in the shadow of never having called out "hi!" The kind of girl who could render you speechless, just by looking over her shoulder at you. The weight of her momentary attention.
With that attention comes a great responsibility.
But if you were close enough, you'd see the sun had gone out in her eyes. And although her countenance was lovely, to gaze upon it was not appropriate. It would be a kind of rape. Greedy and heartless. Thievery.
If you asked an old man in a bar about it, he would impart that sometimes it's better to keep your distance. Sometimes, the best things are those that we have not held to ourselves. Sometimes, the best things are those that blow by, frozen in time to us, the observers, who hold that suspended frame sacred. Always for reasons linked to our own psychology, and never that of the subject. The protagonist. The exemplar.
They're just a crystalline statue, the mirror for your issues, the antecedent.
She rode around the corner, which of course is a literary vehicle that alludes to the fact her life had changed; and was gone, which is another that endeavours to illustrate that the change is permanent.
Flashback:
I remember her, when she was a girl. When she was eighteen years old.
She had the streamlined cheekbones of a concept car, like a bone lamborghini. Long dark hair, but an unsteady walk, at odds with her elegance. Her dark eyes shone , focussing her intense intelligence, lit from within by constellations of stars.
And yet her laugh punctuated art galleries, cafes, and movie theatres like a joyous goose. She never cared for the stern whispers for hush, for the convention of arched brow sideways glances. Her place in the Universe was assured.
As she grew, she occasionally allowed a boy to complicate things for her. Her heart ruled, not her eyes, and so she was gracious enough to spend her time with those who provoked a sense of intrigue, over athleticism, perfect genes, or money. Sometimes, she would explore girls too, as her curiosity respected no borders, her desire contained by nothing at all.
Nothing captured her until Coran.
He was sensitive to her confident, and reflective to her voracious curiosity. He was calm to her argumentative, and he loved her from the moment he saw her, with all that he was.
As with all situations like these, life likes to punish those who deserve it least, and so Coran had to endure the slow torture of becoming close friends with her, while she dated what felt like everyone around him.
For five years he quietly loved her. She knew, of course. And it pained her to see those ropes tighten in his chest whenever she was with another. But Audrey, for that is her name, couldn't help him.
Not of course, until she fell in love with him too.
She had allowed herself to be pulled from orbit by one paramour, a guilty pleasure she granted herself from time to time, in the hope that one day his desire would eclipse hers for him. It was intensely physical, a lot less intellectual than the others, and she found herself craving his rough hands, his strong back, his disregard, when she was alone.
She mentioned it was like a slow motion replay, of an event that had not yet occured...watching herself fall faster and harder toward the inevitable solid object. Like a gorgeous crash test dummy. Like Newtons apple.
So when she met the ground again, the paramour moved on, and her heart broke with the velocity.
Rejection= 9.81 m/s2 = 32.2 ft/s2
Coran was there, just like always.
He endured the crying torrents of words, of "why?", and "he said", and "never!", and he filed away his beating heart in order to effectively hold her, to bring comfort, to be a true friend.
And something shifted in Audrey.
Knowing that Coran was prepared to put his own feelings aside for her, when the nameless paramour had no feelings at all, well that tends to strike a chord.
Knowing that Coran held all the attributes she searched for in the arms and hearts of others, makes that chord resonate.
Knowing that Coran would forgive her the oversight, and gladly share the joy of a harmonious combination, made her pull him into her bed, and give herself in ways she had never previously permitted to anyone.
And for his part, he overwhelmed her, with the power and majesty of his sexual charisma; turning what she thought would be a gentle, considered lovemaking, into a magnificent, muscular, and commanding fornication; all at once synthesised with pulses of gentle consideration, of bodies listening to one another, barriers being pushed but not broken.
And when they lay down among the vapour trails that surrounded them, a gentle rain of thoughts began to fall on them both, each drop promising a future memory, a shared moment, a minute of life.
And they drank them in with smiles on their faces, gladness in their hearts, and the hand of the one they loved in theirs.
Coran died, of course, years later when those drops had all been used.
They had eight years of a love so perfect it seemed unnatural to have that much yin without some dark yang to balance it. But that much yang? That much dark?
Coran was walking their dogs while Audrey visited her Mother. An eighteen foot meteorite burst through the atmosphere behind him and punched his body eighty feet through the pavement, deep into the ground. It makes you feel like the Universe really had it in for him, as if happy endings are forbidden in the cold vacuum of space. And just because we have a thin layer of oxygen surrounding us, and gravity holding us down, doesn't mean we should expect any different.
He couldn't get hit by a car, or even lightning? He was such a priority for immediate nonexistence he needed a celestial object to end him?
There were no remains, he was vaporised, but the dogs survived.
And so Audrey had no face to kiss goodbye, no hair to brush back, no hand to hold one last time. No way to say goodbye.
And she stayed in their house, in their bed, and in that life they had made. Holding the whole thing up by herself.
The service was two months ago now, and it was so wrong to have no coffin there. Coran's skateboard was on display, surrounded by pictures of his life. Flowers. Family. Someone from the Government.
Audrey didn't try to hold it together.
Her usual relaxed composure was wrecked, her physical pain was tangible, it caught in my throat as I breathed it in. The suffering in the room made the soft sunlight seem evil, nothing was right that afternoon. I cried too, even though Coran and I were merely friendly acquaintances. I felt the hole in life that he so perfectly filled.
When we all left I had nothing to say to Audrey. I just touched her cheek, kissed her forehead, held her hand. We had been friends since we were children, we were de-facto related.
And since then she had quietly refused all offers of help, or company, choosing only to close the door of that house, and breathe in whatever air was left, that still contained particles of Coran.
This afternoon was the first time I had seen her since, although she hadn't seen me. I hoped that it signified a change, and that she would rejoin us in the world, when she called me.
She told me she had been to the doctors in the city that afternoon, that she had rode there alone, feeling ill and out of sorts. Understandable, under the circumstances.
But she didn't ride home alone like I thought. She rode home with an unborn girl, called Corine.
The stars are bright tonight.
This is knifey, from 'the internet'.
*Thank you to Sparklehorse for the title...
She was riding an old black bike that looked of a vintage sufficient to be from back when her Grandmother was a girl. It had gold lettering on it that had cracked and faded, but it just added to the appeal. There's a lot to be said for ageing gracefully...
...but you have to be graceful to begin with.
She had crow feathers in her hair, and a sepia tone cardigan over a Def Leppard tee shirt. Corduroy knee length skirt. Snowboard boots, even though it was the end of Summer. I'm not sure why I'm explaining this, does it make you like her more, or less?
She looked like a polaroid of a girl, the kind you'd find under the newspaper on a shelf in an abandoned house, from a time less fraught with complications. Someones fantasy girl. Not stuck to the bench seat of a V8, next to an as yet unregistered crime statistic; but free, available, the wind in her ears, a rusty chain chorus.
A girl who would break your heart just by riding by. She's like the song you hear from a passing car, that captures you completely, but never tells you its name. Her rusty blonde hair rang out like a siren behind her, like flames, or scattered sand. Like a banner in a language no one can remember, but that fascinates just the same. Maybe even all the more, because of it.
She may never have seen you, but you could spend years in the shadow of never having called out "hi!" The kind of girl who could render you speechless, just by looking over her shoulder at you. The weight of her momentary attention.
With that attention comes a great responsibility.
But if you were close enough, you'd see the sun had gone out in her eyes. And although her countenance was lovely, to gaze upon it was not appropriate. It would be a kind of rape. Greedy and heartless. Thievery.
If you asked an old man in a bar about it, he would impart that sometimes it's better to keep your distance. Sometimes, the best things are those that we have not held to ourselves. Sometimes, the best things are those that blow by, frozen in time to us, the observers, who hold that suspended frame sacred. Always for reasons linked to our own psychology, and never that of the subject. The protagonist. The exemplar.
They're just a crystalline statue, the mirror for your issues, the antecedent.
She rode around the corner, which of course is a literary vehicle that alludes to the fact her life had changed; and was gone, which is another that endeavours to illustrate that the change is permanent.
Flashback:
I remember her, when she was a girl. When she was eighteen years old.
She had the streamlined cheekbones of a concept car, like a bone lamborghini. Long dark hair, but an unsteady walk, at odds with her elegance. Her dark eyes shone , focussing her intense intelligence, lit from within by constellations of stars.
And yet her laugh punctuated art galleries, cafes, and movie theatres like a joyous goose. She never cared for the stern whispers for hush, for the convention of arched brow sideways glances. Her place in the Universe was assured.
As she grew, she occasionally allowed a boy to complicate things for her. Her heart ruled, not her eyes, and so she was gracious enough to spend her time with those who provoked a sense of intrigue, over athleticism, perfect genes, or money. Sometimes, she would explore girls too, as her curiosity respected no borders, her desire contained by nothing at all.
Nothing captured her until Coran.
He was sensitive to her confident, and reflective to her voracious curiosity. He was calm to her argumentative, and he loved her from the moment he saw her, with all that he was.
As with all situations like these, life likes to punish those who deserve it least, and so Coran had to endure the slow torture of becoming close friends with her, while she dated what felt like everyone around him.
For five years he quietly loved her. She knew, of course. And it pained her to see those ropes tighten in his chest whenever she was with another. But Audrey, for that is her name, couldn't help him.
Not of course, until she fell in love with him too.
She had allowed herself to be pulled from orbit by one paramour, a guilty pleasure she granted herself from time to time, in the hope that one day his desire would eclipse hers for him. It was intensely physical, a lot less intellectual than the others, and she found herself craving his rough hands, his strong back, his disregard, when she was alone.
She mentioned it was like a slow motion replay, of an event that had not yet occured...watching herself fall faster and harder toward the inevitable solid object. Like a gorgeous crash test dummy. Like Newtons apple.
So when she met the ground again, the paramour moved on, and her heart broke with the velocity.
Rejection= 9.81 m/s2 = 32.2 ft/s2
Coran was there, just like always.
He endured the crying torrents of words, of "why?", and "he said", and "never!", and he filed away his beating heart in order to effectively hold her, to bring comfort, to be a true friend.
And something shifted in Audrey.
Knowing that Coran was prepared to put his own feelings aside for her, when the nameless paramour had no feelings at all, well that tends to strike a chord.
Knowing that Coran held all the attributes she searched for in the arms and hearts of others, makes that chord resonate.
Knowing that Coran would forgive her the oversight, and gladly share the joy of a harmonious combination, made her pull him into her bed, and give herself in ways she had never previously permitted to anyone.
And for his part, he overwhelmed her, with the power and majesty of his sexual charisma; turning what she thought would be a gentle, considered lovemaking, into a magnificent, muscular, and commanding fornication; all at once synthesised with pulses of gentle consideration, of bodies listening to one another, barriers being pushed but not broken.
And when they lay down among the vapour trails that surrounded them, a gentle rain of thoughts began to fall on them both, each drop promising a future memory, a shared moment, a minute of life.
And they drank them in with smiles on their faces, gladness in their hearts, and the hand of the one they loved in theirs.
Coran died, of course, years later when those drops had all been used.
They had eight years of a love so perfect it seemed unnatural to have that much yin without some dark yang to balance it. But that much yang? That much dark?
Coran was walking their dogs while Audrey visited her Mother. An eighteen foot meteorite burst through the atmosphere behind him and punched his body eighty feet through the pavement, deep into the ground. It makes you feel like the Universe really had it in for him, as if happy endings are forbidden in the cold vacuum of space. And just because we have a thin layer of oxygen surrounding us, and gravity holding us down, doesn't mean we should expect any different.
He couldn't get hit by a car, or even lightning? He was such a priority for immediate nonexistence he needed a celestial object to end him?
There were no remains, he was vaporised, but the dogs survived.
And so Audrey had no face to kiss goodbye, no hair to brush back, no hand to hold one last time. No way to say goodbye.
And she stayed in their house, in their bed, and in that life they had made. Holding the whole thing up by herself.
The service was two months ago now, and it was so wrong to have no coffin there. Coran's skateboard was on display, surrounded by pictures of his life. Flowers. Family. Someone from the Government.
Audrey didn't try to hold it together.
Her usual relaxed composure was wrecked, her physical pain was tangible, it caught in my throat as I breathed it in. The suffering in the room made the soft sunlight seem evil, nothing was right that afternoon. I cried too, even though Coran and I were merely friendly acquaintances. I felt the hole in life that he so perfectly filled.
When we all left I had nothing to say to Audrey. I just touched her cheek, kissed her forehead, held her hand. We had been friends since we were children, we were de-facto related.
And since then she had quietly refused all offers of help, or company, choosing only to close the door of that house, and breathe in whatever air was left, that still contained particles of Coran.
This afternoon was the first time I had seen her since, although she hadn't seen me. I hoped that it signified a change, and that she would rejoin us in the world, when she called me.
She told me she had been to the doctors in the city that afternoon, that she had rode there alone, feeling ill and out of sorts. Understandable, under the circumstances.
But she didn't ride home alone like I thought. She rode home with an unborn girl, called Corine.
The stars are bright tonight.
This is knifey, from 'the internet'.
*Thank you to Sparklehorse for the title...
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