God is Playing Tricks of Me - A Short Story (COPYRIGHTED)

One night a rush of cold air blew over a thin layer of blanket that only actually covered forty-five percent of his small body. A frost settled and the bed shivered as two tiny feet tip-toed gently onto the floor. The cat followed his lead as he got up. He would stand and rub his eyes for a moment before opening his eyelids to the familiar sight of his life. The photographs stacked in the corner making friends with the dust. The miniature Christmas tree from his ex-girlfriend blinking by the front door. The couch, the reading glasses, the desk, the drawers. There was just then a knock at the door. He was awakened as he jumped into his robe, tightening the red satchel above his hips, past the Christmas tree his eye peeped out of the peep hole to see who was there. Pacing carefully for a moment, there was no time to waste. Five seconds, ten seconds, thirty seconds passed, he wondered if she was still on the other side. A young ladies voice called out, like a fair maiden or goddess of the night, Othello’s only love - merciless against his tired soul. Weak immediately, “who is there?, to himself he whispered.
The sun was down for six hours before he answered the door but it would be days before either would come or go again. The pound of the door, the pounding of their bodies; old lovers reconvene.
Her shoes fell five stories down when she threatened to leave and he threw them out. “You musn’t go, you just arrived.” he’d said to her. Her lips were turning blue she was so cold. The heat was busted, they sat on the mustard colored couch, scratching their heads and unable to sleep.
Again, they fucked but still, they couldn’t sleep. They’d smoke cigarette after cigarette until they felt light on their teeth and Miranda wanted to fly. Brutus pulled her down, held her tight, pulled the satchel off her hips - the robe that had exchange onto her body slipped to the floor revealing her body.
Garbage littered the apartment. Memories of last weeks dinner scattered across the kitchen table. She was disgusted but she didn’t say a word to him. She really let it go, pushed it aside. It mattered little to her how he kept his home. It was how he treated her that mattered.
They’d of fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the hookers outside of their window. They’d sing a song about spotting the hookers and Miranda lost when she couldn’t find anymore after about five a.m. They didn’t feel like old lovers. They didn’t feel particularly old. Brutus suggested they put on music. What he meant was “Can I put on music?” She obliged - they listened.
“Where do you go when you leave here?,” he asked.
“I go somewhere else, with other people.”
“But where? Where do you go when you leave me?”
“Don’t be retarded, I just go on living.”
“You musn’t,” and he held her tightly as the sun rose over the blind revealing the morning story of the largest star. Together they’d tell the story, tell of its colors, tell of its patterns and changes. Always the same subject but an ever evolving story of light.
When it was fully daytime they put their clothes on. He, blue jeans, blue shirt. Her, long dress, blue sweater. They almost matched, but really, they didn’t. They ate cookies ‘n’ cream ice cream and opened the windows up. The air rushed in and it was cold, but feel a thing they did not. They carried on with their conversation, unaffected by the weather, their atmosphere or even the company of each other.
Mid-day approached and hunger set in. Brutus went to the refrigerator and pulled out turkey, cheese, mustard, lettuce and a tomato.
“You shouldn’t keep your tomatoes in the fridge. Put them on the window sill.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay.”
“No really,” she pressed.
He moved the tomatoes.
“Oh, I can’t have that.”
“Can’t have what?,” he asked.
“The turkey. I’m a vegetarian.”
“Since when?,” he asked.
“I started dating this guy who…”
“Okay, that’s enough,” he opened the refrigerator and pulled out some left over spaghetti then he made his way to the microwave. Pressing the buttons harder and harder, all he was thinking of was her naked body from earlier. He didn’t care what she wanted to eat. He didn’t care if she ate. But, he didn’t need to know who she was seeing. He didn’t want to know a thing.
They decided to close the windows. It was getting chilly in the room and Miranda was not in the habit of covering up, let alone today, on a day like this, with him. They ate and laughed, as time disappeared, hours past, the earth slowly shifted, but they didn’t seem to move. Stuck to the ground, leaning against the bed, it seemed all secrets were fair game, all jokes personal, all truth told. Recounting the times they’d last seen each other before, “in the park,” “in your car,” “at my house,” “in the park again.” It seemed there was always some secret attached to them. They constantly hid from everyone else. They hid from each other.
What they didn’t tell each other they let the other feel.
Wasted time – it is possible they wasted time but always did they enjoy the company of one another. Two glasses, one with a tree and the other his grandmothers, filled with brandy warmed in the microwave clasped in their hands made them honest. They closed their eyes and recounted their first meeting. You were this tall, this age, this beautiful. I was her, you were him, “are you still?,” Miranda asked to herself.
Intently they listened to each other though it was hard to look the other in the eye.
“Do you want to stay?,” he asked.
“How long?,” she wondered.
“Dinner, stay for dinner. I could make you something. Tell me what you eat.”
“I could help you. I can stay.”
The words brought a jolt to Miranda as she felt a thousand instances smack her in the heart every single time measured in lies. Every event marked by deceit. The room seemed smaller than when she first arrived and only now did all of his belongings, stacked in piles, thrown to the side, covered in dust, become obvious. Her eyes made a trail as they marched along the room, panning up and down, left and right, faster and faster. Cards, pictures, gifts she assumed, stuff, things, his things all over the place. Faster did her heart beat and slower did she speak when realizing this was the room of her old lover.
The tone of his voice implied sex. He wanted to fuck again, she knew it. But, she couldn’t, not now. Not after realizing what she had done. She felt sick, nauseous, I must go. But, she was stuck, tarred to the ground and feathered with fear as his smile paralyzed her legs, her back. The body tense knows no other way and so she stood oddly strait, uncomfortably and awkward looking away from his face.
Five years had passed. Accomplishments, new memories formed, pain released, yet still she could not shake him from her current self. Over and again she tried. With all of her existence did she yearn to release him. Yet, at that moment stood closer to him than any other human on Earth.
He hadn’t wanted this either. He didn’t want to fall in love. No one does. He wanted his sanity back. He wanted more than anything to have the ability to love again back. If she wasn’t going to love him, he wanted to love another woman. He wants to hold the woman he loves, he wants to feel her close to him when they are out. He doesn’t want to hide, he wants to be brave with his love.
But, she closes him out. Like, two people on an endless track, the dust just kicks up behind them and the car rolls on. I heard that cars can drive for an eternity like this, sometimes blindly.
Dinner was to be served prompt at 6. It would be a date. She would go to her corner of the room, him to his and back they would return to meet again, freshened up, smelling of daffodils or polo players. She enjoyed the aroma when he cooked, liked watching him from behind as his body moved about the kitchen, his shadow chasing him around the room. Her eyes followed his every move.
He could seduce her by doing nothing. His breathing turned her on; he turned her out only two hours ago again. It was constantly on their minds as if it was the biggest thing in common in both of their lives.
Should she go, should she stay. If she stayed, how long would she stay? Could she stay, forever?