smother. [h.s.]

1. shalom

I Only Have Eyes for You - The Flamingos

I'm not sure if love is real. At least, not for me. It seems like something that I could only make up in my head, or see from afar. I have to squint, tilt my head, and spin three times for it to appear, however blurry and deformed. I can only feel a semblance of what love might be like when I'm deep in a maladaptive daydream- one in which I'm not me, and I'm not where I am now. In that world, I am a different person, someone who is more capable of loving and being loved.

One thing that is apparent to me, is what seems like love. Two rows ahead of me, and to the left, sits a girl with tightly coiled red hair who keeps brushing her shoulder up against the arm of a round-faced boy to her right. They are definitely a year or two younger than me. I can tell by the way their features still seem childlike- the bridge of his nose and the curve of her cheek still coming into their own.

I can't tear my eyes off them. I don't know why- I don't usually stare at people. But the way she keeps sneaking glances towards him every few moments pulls me into a trance. He keeps staring at her lips, but she is too shy to notice. I'm too far away to be able to see their hands, but I imagine that the sides of their pinkies feather against each other from between their laps. Maybe their feet are intertwined, showing each other little bits and pieces of affection that even some creep behind them can't invade on. They don't need words to convey what they mean. Their bodies speak for them.

It makes me uncomfortable, not just because I'm being weird, but because I have never experienced such infatuation myself. I feel sick to my stomach yet I can't look away. Slowly dragging a knife across my throat would be less painful than this. At the very least, it would be over with sooner.

Suddenly, I feel a pointy elbow nudge into my ribs from my side. I grimace and rub the spot that was attacked.

I grumble something under my breath, trying to not let out any noise over the sounds of prayer. The elbow, which belongs to my mother, swiftly returns back to its spot next to me on the bench we sit on.

"Pay attention," she sharply whispers in my direction, her glance remaining straight ahead.

I finally pry my eyes away from the couple ahead of me. I glance back to my mother, watching her small stiff frame from the corner of my eye. I sit up straighter, trying to emulate what she wants of me. Folding my hands neatly into my lap, I quietly join in on the prayer, each word slipping past my lips with ease.

I get the feeling that people around here assume I'm a bad influence. Maybe because I'm not as passionate as the other girls in my congregation, not that I did poorly in Hebrew school or anything. 

Or maybe it's the rumors about me. The whispers that float down the hall, into the ears, and from the mouths of those who spread them. 

I don't really care.

As the service continued, I tried to keep my attention on the prayers, but I couldn't control myself. Every so often my eyes would glance back at the couple, and I found myself chewing on my nails to ground myself.

Eventually, service ended, and we all filed out. This is how Fridays usually go for my family when we're all home for break. My mother and father silently drive us back home, the lack of words shared making the air thick with an uncomfortable tension that has grown familiar to me. I know their marriage is crumbling. I'm not stupid. I can see it every time my dad tries to stroke my mom's arm, only for her to slowly recoil and glance the other way. Where there was once constant fighting is now just emptiness. It's been like this for years, slowly chipping away day by day. I know they have been holding out, trying to see how long they could survive in this strangled fashion.