Darling & Foster

Nineteen

Foster is an atheist. I'm glad that he said that because that means he believes. Even if he believes in nothing. He believes in nothing so strongly to say it, and I think that's really something. In this world, it's hard to be truly anything at all. I think that if I was to be something, I would be a catholic, because Mary was strong and brave and beautiful and she would deserve it. I don't know if Mary was a real person and I don't know if Jesus was either, but falseness doesn't absolutely mean that it isn't nice to feel like someone all-around loves you more than anything. I really shouldn't be discussing religion. 

Foster quoted Robert Pirsig in Lila, saying, "when one person suffers from a delusion it is called insanity. When many people suffer from a delusion it is called religion." And then pressed the alcohol to his mouth but didn't drink. "How do you feel, Darla?"

"I've only met one atheist before."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah."

"Who?"

"My father."

I turned my head down. But he stared me straight in the eyes somehow. "You know that's not a bad thing, Darla. You don't have to whisper it." 

"I'm not whispering because he's an atheist, I'm whispering because he's my father." I still don't know why our conversations escalate so quickly, get so personal. I didn't want him to know about me. But I did run in on him during a suicide attempt. I do feel like everything was unwillingly out in the open when that occured.

"Where do you think you'll go when you die?" I looked at the sky, how dark it was, I felt inclined to. 

"Maybe nowhere, maybe everywhere, maybe into a hole in the ground." And as I was looking to skies, he was looking to the ground, which had grass that couldn't be seen, because of the pitch black night. 

"And you were willingly to risk it?"

"Yes."

"..." 

He shifted his knees and turned and looked at me. Really looked at me. His fingers went up to touch my forehead, close to my eyebrow, but grabbed a small tassle of hair instead. And he spun it through every finger. And then he said,  "You're beautiful, Darla, do you know that?" 

But not skinny beautiful. My eyes kind of flickered. And I didn't want to cry, but I wanted too. 

"But I'm not thin." 

"Darla."

"Yes."

"Come here." 

 First, he smiled. He smiled so deeply and genuinely, a tear quickly fell from my eye and hit the ground. And then his hand moved to my cheek. And he was so close and his breath was so cold and yet so warm. His voice was low and he told me that I was beautiful and he just kept saying that until our lips touched. I took a shaky breath of air in. His lips were soft and forgiving and I wanted to drown into them. And then they molded together with mine slowly, sweetly, softly. And we were kissing so divinely. He was sublime. He moved his other hand down from my shoulders to my back. And my arms were around his neck just like how people kissed in those 1950's movies. And when he was kissing me, I didn't feel fat or ugly. I felt beautiful, just like he said that I was.