She had asked the question in an afternoon when yellow haze filtered into the restaurant, really the bar area, early enough so that there were few companions but late enough to ensure the Fall sun fell almost horizontal through the windows. He had taken a draw from the big pilsner glass in front of him.
Am I?
Yes. And I don't like it.
This amused him a bit.
How would you like me to be, then? He looked at her, the slash of sun like a mask across her and her eyes were narrowed. She didn't look anything except annoyed.
I want you to be real...I want you to share with me and expose to me what it is you're really thinking. I want the good and the bad.
That sounds awfully like a wedding vow, he said smirking. Her annoyance ticked up just a bit more.
I'm being serious...these one word answers and generic responses are bullshit.
He turned to face her, and his knees aligned with hers. He moved his slightly so their legs alternated, almost like intertwined fingers....hers, his, hers, his.
You forget, he said.
Forget what?
He inhaled, and let out a bit of effort. She was still looking at him, eyes a little wider signalling expected response.
I tried that before. Her eyes opened slightly. And it got me nowhere with you. Her face softened. The contours and angles smoothed a bit...her whatever she felt (anger, impatience) morphed into knowledge. She dropped her eyes...and he felt her legs tighten slightly against his.
Okay. Okay, fair.
So please don't ask me to do it again.
She looked up again. I hate your politeness. I hate that facade.
You built those bricks. You're initials are stamped on each one.
Her features tightened again, taut. He felt the slight anger in a way you feel opening an oven door. Just there for a moment. She turned her legs and they escaped the grasp of his, he let her go and picked up his beer.
Outside the wind had picked up a bit and the gray hairs of an evening poked through the veil of blue as the sun quietly moved past the horizon. They had walked to the parking garage and it was concrete and steel, and in the ante room near the elevator they had stopped.
Why did you come? She asked.
Why turn down a chance to see you.
But if you're not going to say anything then why bother?
He took a slight step towards her, and with his hand he slid it just along her jawline so that his thumb was on her cheek and the rest cupped her face.
Because I cannot get you off me. I cannot wash you away. I cannot paint over you, cannot simply whitewash you from me. It's not just stupid words, stupid sentences, it is like a disease, an infection...an inflammation. It is a sore, a bruise. It is not enough...not even close to being clearly ever enough, to describe, to define, to convince you of what it is. You'll depart here, you'll leave and I'll remain but you will still cling. A least to me. And no words will bring you back, no paragraph will entice you. So just let me politely wear you, in private, where nobody else knows that you are inside of me. Except you. Now.
He let go off her face and took a step back. And that's why I'm so fucking polite. Because I risk sharing shit like that...so you can be...bemused...amused...whatever.
And he remembered when he was walking away, when the wind had picked up and hurried him away from her like a bundle of dead leaves, walking in the same direction as nightfall with streetlamps and car
lights merely yellow colors, how politely she had looked back at him, and had politely refrained from a word.
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