cursing out the moon ➵ a.b.

Chapter 21: There's an Imposter in My Body

Andy steps up to the microphone, knowing his poem by heart. The title: "Sex". I did not know anything else. I see him fiddle with his jean pockets, fixing them for no other reason than to create a distraction.

His words: "This is called...Sex."

"I wonder if you see me the way she used to see me.

I often times catch myself nodding off to the thought of you and your frozen lips. They still haven't warmed up from the winter blizzard. You and your frost-bitten lips that are the color of pink tulips when bare and nude. They are just starting to awaken and come out of hibernation. You've been in one since becoming a simple nine-year-old, my dear nymphet.

Those lips I could have sworn Cupid himself designed. He left his mark: his bow rests atop them.

A spring thaw is the analogy that I will use when I think of your body and lips. So cold and barren, but strips of flowers and cracks in the soil are rising through the snow, and it makes it look imperfect--like the god of this age.

Your name is two syllables and it rests on my palette, tasting like your lips and the tears I wish I could have kissed away from that car ride a good month ago. Remember? The one where you cried like an idiot? We both knew something: you needed affection and warmth, but I was afraid. I was afraid of touching you and breaking you even more. And through time, I believe I have built you up higher than you once were.

I hope you know that sex between you and I won't be needed. I hope you understand that I would never pressure you into anything.

Still, I see you not trusting me. I know your image of men as a sex was ruined--his name, I will not speak.

You remind me of my ex. There is a difference, though, between her and how I look at you now. I knew that ex was not going to last--I always knew that. In the back of my mind, I knew it would end up the way it did.

For her and I, sex came early in our relationship. I feel like that should have been my warning sign that we were not going to be long-term, and that we were just lust in disguise.

If I go, I truly will never leave you. Always remember who I was, please. Make an effort to make the memory of me last lifetimes. I am not afraid to die, but for you, I am.

Promise me this: you will carry on my name just as long as I carry you in my bosom."

That was the end. Applause rained down and showered the blushing man on stage. As he walked off it, he came running up to me, chanting, "They liked it."

My first reaction was not to be happy for him; I felt something deeper. I was trembling before him, my knees growing weak as he pulled me up from the wobbly table, bolts and screws missing on one side. "Andy," I whisper, feeling as though I was seeing his ghost. I do not speak, only gasping in short breaths. I wasn't okay; I wasn't elated by his poem; I felt something deeper: worry.

"Are you all right?" I finally make out. His voice is full of concern.

The words repeat in my head, bouncing around my skull like my bones were made of trampolines. "Make an effort to make the memory of me last life times. I am not afraid to die, but for you, I am."

He takes me away from the lights and stage immediately. With what feels like hundreds of eyes staring at us, we walk our way out of the shop. In fact, I stumble more than walk; I cling on to his shirt and body on the way out.

The hundred eyes: the reason I met June. The horrible Brit Lit teacher that sent me to the Dean's office unapologetically; Karliah giving me the keys before the treacherous decent. The reason I met Andy: that damned woman, June Collingwood. Another word for her would be manipulator, almost, though I cannot blame her for her logical skills and the way she happens to think.