bullshit to the highest degree

As if you both weren’t terrified of the other going. As if neither of you knew you could afford any hotel room you wanted.

Instead, you just grip her hand a little tighter, feel her skin and think about how long it’s been. 2 years. 38 states and hundreds of hotels. Thousands of glances at her contact.

Instead, you just feel her.

Dali

God. She’s been gone so long.

“I haven’t scripted a damn thing, but I’ve been painting.” You wait for her to stare you down, wonder when you got into actual art. You know you never really did anything with whatever talent you had because you had to stop the Batterwitch, you had to follow Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff because it got you money and status and a chance, and now that you have money in the bank and time to think you find yourself at a canvas more often than ever before.

You finally reach out and leave your hand on the table, stiller than before, tilting your head down to give her a look. Almost as if to ask “Your hand?” Almost as if you were desperate to make sure this was all real.

“Good on you, then.”

You hope that he doesn’t catch the bitterness.

He puts his hand on the table and looks at you, rather pointedly, and your heart skips a little as you comply, slipping your hand into his and wondering if he’ll go again.

After a few seconds, you slip in, conversationally, “I’ll show you around my hotel room.”

Instead, you just grip her hand a little tighter, feel her skin and think about how long it's been. 2 years. 38 states and hundreds of hotels. Thousands of glances at her contact.

Instead, you just feel her.

Horacio Vaggione - L’Art de la Musique N°2, for 4 oscillators

It’s nearly perfect for just a moment in this shitty cafe in California.

“Getting better.” You say, because it is, and you wonder if maybe she feels the same way.

Maybe you can do this if you have her back, someone who knows you as well as you know yourself and vice versa, and you wonder where she’s staying. You wonder if there’s room for two.

You dare to hope that your shitty streak of hotel hopping and drinking until your head is pounding and the memories are the same as dreams is over.

Two fucking years. He couldn’t leave now, not after you’d came across each other in a lucky break.

Dave turns the conversation back towards you and you wonder if you’re expected to give him a lengthy summary of what you’ve been doing. Delicately, you decide to say, “I’ve stopped writing.”

You’re not sure if the same goes for him, but just thinking it is a tad bit - painful. It’s what you’ve almost always done, alongside Dave and his tastefully awful movies, to combat the Witch, and you don’t continue writing simply because you can’t.

Writing gives you impossible chills and headaches that don’t even make sense.

"I haven't scripted a damn thing, but I've been painting." You wait for her to stare you down, wonder when you got into actual art. You know you never really did anything with whatever talent you had because you had to stop the Batterwitch, you had to follow Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff because it got you money and status and a chance, and now that you have money in the bank and time to think you find yourself at a canvas more often than ever before.

You finally reach out and leave your hand on the table, stiller than before, tilting your head down to give her a look. Almost as if to ask "Your hand?" Almost as if you were desperate to make sure this was all real.

The response is automatic because you KNOW she drinks black coffee, know it because you always would dump sugar in hers if you wanted it, know it because you’d get her coffee sometimes when you felt like fucking with the press.

There’s a sense of longing in your throat already and all you want, all you NEED is for her to keep speaking, for her to not leave you right now because you can’t stand the thought of being without her now that you’ve seen her.

The admonishment reminds you that he knows you inside and out, as you do him - used to know.

It’s hard to know how to feel - you’ve been coping for two years by yourself in a tiny apartment, thinking everything out, and then Dave appears and it’s like you’ve only been apart for a few hours and you think you might very well be jealous.

Lucky bastard.

You slide his cup back towards him and allow yourself to stare at his face, now with his glasses on. You can’t tell if it’s just because of you but you feel as if he hasn’t changed a bit.

It's nearly perfect for just a moment in this shitty cafe in California.

"Getting better." You say, because it is, and you wonder if maybe she feels the same way.

Maybe you can do this if you have her back, someone who knows you as well as you know yourself and vice versa, and you wonder where she's staying. You wonder if there's room for two.

You dare to hope that your shitty streak of hotel hopping and drinking until your head is pounding and the memories are the same as dreams is over.

2 years.

“I…” You start and stop because what do you say to that? You’re mortified and you want to hug her but somehow you feel like you can’t and you can’t help but think of every hour and every minute and every second she was alone.

The clock in your head ticks and tocks and with every beat you feel a little bit more sick to your stomach because two years. She’d been here for two years.

It’s not a dream.

You contemplate looking up at him, telling him that it’s alright, but yet again you’re too cowardly to so you just say, disjointedly, “I like your taste in coffee.”

Even if you’d prefer to take it black.

And then you allow yourself to look up at him and take in his face and it echoes unpleasantly that you haven’t seen each other for two years.

There's a sense of longing in your throat already and all you want, all you NEED is for her to keep speaking, for her to not leave you right now because you can't stand the thought of being without her now that you've seen her.

RADIOINACTIVE  [iD 97]

Sunset