along the road

interlude

     Our words are erupting across the apartment, catapulted through the windows by our ever—rising voices, set alight by the rage crackling behind our eyes. My browns burn white, your blues burn black.

                 I can't recall why this started. Why I'm standing behind the couch, both hands gripping the headrest—only to stop the shaking, the kind that turns everything a little blurry, a little broken—eyes fixed on you as you pace across the room, arms waving dramatically, lips never meeting, cutting the stream of bullshit that flows from you. Lie, after lie, after lie.

         Maybe that's why I find myself inhaling deeply, my grip only tightening on the soft fabric. I wonder if I could break it, watch it crumble in my hands, fling it across the room. I wonder if it would hurt; this chunk of chair, of couch, of something we bought together, of us. Maybe it'd knock some sense into you.

       "You can't just quit without telling me," I roar, his voice finally fading out of its horrendous monotone, his eyes focusing on me as his body begins to still. He blinks. Then, he frowns.

                 "I can do whatever I want," he grumbles. He steps towards me, and I feel every muscle in my body tense, as if this is a moment for an inhale, but my lungs can't seem to fit enough air into them.

           "Not when we're a team," I hiss. "How the hell are we going to pay for this apartment?"

      "I'll find some—"

        "Common sense? That would be great."

"J—"

                  "It's almost as if you keep forgetting that you're not the only one here." The words tumble out of me, and suddenly I'm hunched over the couch, staring into the suede pillows my mother handed down, staring at the lines smeared across the fabric, the time stitched into every corner. I feel his hands reach me, lift my head up. His breath washes over me—fruity, from the gum he chews when he's nervous (I should have known), and his lips press against mine, gently, pleadingly.

              In the midst of heaven, in the presence of paradise, I open my eyes and find myself pushing him away.

                  His eyes are wide, mouth still parted open, white teeth glinting behind wet lips.

           "You're not the only one in this relationship, okay?" I snap, the fury turning itself over within me. "And you do not get to kiss me and say you'll make it better when that's what you've been saying that since the day I met you."

                     The rooms fall silent. I can hear his breath—in,          out,          in,            out,           in,              out.

            "That is not fair." He huffs. "You don't get to hold the past over me, okay?"

                 "I do, if you're still the child you used to be," I huff, too far-gone, in too deep to pull myself back up now. I watch as he clenches his fist at his side, and suddenly wonder if my blood would taste different in my mouth, knowing that he put it there with a swift knuckle to my cheek.

            He remains where he is. And so the century-long stalemate continues; us, standing on opposite sides of every room, the middle-ground strewn with things we wish we could say if fear hadn't corrupted our hearts, and bone-breaking love hadn't blinded us.

                "I'm tired of having this fight with you." He scoffs, fists still clenched, lips pulled tightly across the shadowed caverns of his face, darkness cascading across the ocean of his eyes. He turns, storming towards the door, undoubtedly slipping into that age-old tendency; finding love where it did not live, fleeing from the only real affection he'd ever known.