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- 01/12/2011
- 448 Words
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Interlude - 7. Chapter 7
Until Our Bodies Touch Again
I don’t know how long I lay in his arms. Time had stopped for me. It had stopped the moment I had spoken his name. “Andrew.” I said it again, and it caressed my tongue as it slipped softly through my lips.
I pulled away from him, left the warmth and comfort of his chest and lay on my back. I stared up at the ceiling. “I’m married, have two daughters.” He hadn’t asked. Who was I really saying that to? Maybe I was reminding myself.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his head resting on his hand. He looked at me, his eyes searching mine as if they were searching my soul, reaching inside me, looking for something. “And you are happy?” Still he searched my eyes, as if looking to find the answer in them—not in my words.
Was I happy? I knew it wasn’t an idle question and I didn’t want to give him an idle answer. I looked away from his eyes. Their scrutiny was too much. I knew he could see my answer, but it wasn’t the answer I wanted, wasn’t the answer I wanted to give him. I shut my eyes tightly and pictured Joanne and Sarah and Jess. I smiled when I pictured my daughters. Was I happy? I opened my eyes and looked at him.
“Happy enough.” And I was. Not deliriously happy. Not so happy that nothing else in the world mattered. Not so happy that I wouldn’t regret his walking out that hotel room door every day for the rest of this life. But I was happy. Happy enough.
He smiled, and it was a slightly sad smile, but one of complete comprehension. Funny how he had always seemed to be able to look into my eyes and understand me completely. Funny how I thought it was “always.”
He ran a finger along the line of my cheek.
“David, our souls will always seek each other. We are two halves of one whole. We are destined to be together, if not in this life then the next, or the next. But we will always be together. In our dreams our lips will brush. In eternity our souls will entwine.”
He leaned closer and again I saw my reflection in his eyes. And in that reflection, I could see his reflection. Like the endless reflections of two mirrors face to face, stretching into infinity, into eternity. And I had a sense of his words, a feeling of their truth. And the writer in me, the would-be poet captured those words and vowed to hold them until our bodies touched again.
Copyright © 2011 Luc; All Rights Reserved.
I don’t know how long I lay in his arms. Time had stopped for me. It had stopped the moment I had spoken his name. “Andrew.” I said it again, and it caressed my tongue as it slipped softly through my lips.
I pulled away from him, left the warmth and comfort of his chest and lay on my back. I stared up at the ceiling. “I’m married, have two daughters.” He hadn’t asked. Who was I really saying that to? Maybe I was reminding myself.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his head resting on his hand. He looked at me, his eyes searching mine as if they were searching my soul, reaching inside me, looking for something. “And you are happy?” Still he searched my eyes, as if looking to find the answer in them—not in my words.
Was I happy? I knew it wasn’t an idle question and I didn’t want to give him an idle answer. I looked away from his eyes. Their scrutiny was too much. I knew he could see my answer, but it wasn’t the answer I wanted, wasn’t the answer I wanted to give him. I shut my eyes tightly and pictured Joanne and Sarah and Jess. I smiled when I pictured my daughters. Was I happy? I opened my eyes and looked at him.
“Happy enough.” And I was. Not deliriously happy. Not so happy that nothing else in the world mattered. Not so happy that I wouldn’t regret his walking out that hotel room door every day for the rest of this life. But I was happy. Happy enough.
He smiled, and it was a slightly sad smile, but one of complete comprehension. Funny how he had always seemed to be able to look into my eyes and understand me completely. Funny how I thought it was “always.”
He ran a finger along the line of my cheek.
“David, our souls will always seek each other. We are two halves of one whole. We are destined to be together, if not in this life then the next, or the next. But we will always be together. In our dreams our lips will brush. In eternity our souls will entwine.”
He leaned closer and again I saw my reflection in his eyes. And in that reflection, I could see his reflection. Like the endless reflections of two mirrors face to face, stretching into infinity, into eternity. And I had a sense of his words, a feeling of their truth. And the writer in me, the would-be poet captured those words and vowed to hold them until our bodies touched again.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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