Leaving


Sunlight does not break over the horizon this far north. Daybreak seeps; it slowly fades into a dawn-colored sky, lightening darkness with pinks and golds. It's impossible to point to the moment where night ends and day begins in this world. The same is true for the evening, with indigo and navy spreading into the air, spilled ink on parchment.

But for now, it is morning. The day is cloudy-bright, as if moon tried to be the sun for a day but could only cast milky beams, not shining arrows. It's silver outside, grey and dappled. The wind plays with white, gauzy curtains that drape loosely over the open window. They dance back and forth, feather-light, mirroring the sounds of a rocking ocean tide in the distance. A warbler sings for a companion in echoing tones; nothing answers.

It is here that I find myself, a sheet tangled up between my legs, damp air making me shiver, lying next to you, wondering how we got here. Wondering how much this is going to fuck everything up, wondering if anything can ever be normal again.

Rolling over, I study your face - the little laugh lines at the edges of your eyes; long, thick furrows on the sides of your smile; worry scars on your forehead; a wayward freckle on your chin. The expression that tells me you're dreaming of something pleasant.

God damn it. I shouldn't have given in to you. Fucking temptation. Never mind that I've wanted this forever, that you apparently wanted it too, that what happened last night was incredible and beautiful and perfect - I shouldn't be here.

My chest heaves a sigh, and I sit up, the springs in mattress complaining under my weight. I shoot another glance at you, but you're still asleep, unfazed by anything. The wooden floorboards are cold to the touch, and I take a moment to collect myself before standing up, rubbing the back of my neck to ease the pain.

I'm sorry it has to be like this.

I walk to the window, my toes curling in from the coldness of the floor, and peer out over the horizon. It's light outside, well into mid-morning. I notice how dry my mouth is, how sandy my throat feels. I don't know if it's because I just woke or if it's because of what I know I have to do.

I have to leave you.

I'm sorry.

But it's not a matter of what I want to do, is it? It's a matter of what I should do. It's a matter that the only way to keep us from completely fucking up our perfectly happy lives is for me to walk out that door right now and never look back. There are some things that you just can't change, no matter how much you want to.

No matter how much I want to …

No matter. No matter at all.

Why do you have to look so goddamn peaceful laying there.

Listen, I'm sorry I can't be here when you wake up. But you'll just look at me with those piercing blue eyes again, all innocent, all naive, all "Hey, good morning," and I'll melt, and I'll fucking ask myself why I just can't go back to bed with you for a few more hours, a few more days, forever. I'll let myself fall back in and never be able to get out again.

Right now, I want to be lying next to you more than ever.

The water in the shower is not even lukewarm, just cold enough to be uncomfortable. Bless you for being able to sleep through anything. I barely rinse myself off before getting out. I don't want to open your shampoo or smell your soap on my skin. Short showers are good, cleansing. Sobering.

You're still asleep when I walk outside, but you've moved, your arm now draped over the spot where my body should be. Wind hits me through the useless curtains and I shiver. Water droplets drip off my hair, down to the base of my neck. I grab another towel off the rack and bend over, drying my hair as quietly as possible. I keep an eye on you the entire time, having a thousand excuses ready in my head should you wake and ask what I'm doing.

My ruffled clothes are in the lying in the same spot where they were torn off last night, neatly crumpled next to yours. The sets are almost duplicate - socks, jeans with the belt still on, and boxers all in one pile, with a shirt right beside. There's a tie in your pile, but I wasn't wearing one last night. Other than that, they're identical.

I start gathering my half of the heap, and slowly, I begin to reassemble myself, putting on old clothes of an old life that we're going to go back to. Last night was a mistake, a wonderful, intense, incredible mistake. We both wanted it so badly. We gave in. But we have to be careful now. We know what a powerful aphrodisiac lust and taboo and smoke and alcohol and sweat can be. We can't get caught in it again, no matter how swollen your lips got between my teeth, no matter how good your fingernails felt digging into my skin, no matter how much you begged me, no matter - no matter how fucking right it felt - no matter how completely perfect everything was when I had you in my arms and you told me you loved me --

No matter.

No matter.

Fasten my belt. Find my socks. Refuse to look at you when everything is suddenly quieter and I can hear the pattern of your breathing, slow and heavy. Rhythmic.

As I pull my shirt over my head and grab for my keys, the back of my throat tenses up and my face tingles. I'm such shit for doing this to you, for leaving you like this. I don't want to even imagine what your reaction is going to be when you wake up to an empty bed and a just-used shower. But you know I have to, right? You know that I'm doing this for the both of us, right? You know that when I walk out the door, you're still going to be my best friend who I care more about than any girl I've ever fucked and told I loved, right?

But we just can't be lovers.

The doorknob is cold. I make the mistake of looking back at you once more, and before I know it I'm standing beside the bed, a sheet in my fist, holding the soft linen till my knuckles are white.

If only you knew how much I love you.

I'm sorry.

The sheet drops from my fingers, defeated.

I'm gone.



(c) Kate Finneran 2004

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