25 July 2010

Vicissitude

"I'm always going to love you;" she says, "I want you to know that." She takes the cigarette from between his lips and sucks in the hot, spicy smoke, then blows it back out into his face. He clears his throat and looks away from her, his forearm resting softly on her stomach.

"Sure," he replies. He tries to make his gaze cold and unfeeling as he focuses on the sound of a car alarm a few blocks away, its noise muffled by the heat pressing on his ears.

She lifts her head from his lap and stares at the side of his face. His hand slips from her torso, and he places it on the back of the bench. He still attempts to avoid her gaze. Shrugging slightly, she lies back down. He leaves his hand on the bench, finding comfort in the cool ridges of the wood.

"What are we doing, then? What's the deal?" He asks, trying to give her a hardened look, but his eyes unwillingly soften as they meet hers.

"I know what I'm doing."

"What are you doing?"

"No idea."

"Well, that's good." He looks away, wondering vaguely why he agreed to come out here. The heat is oppressive and sticky, and he just took a shower.

She sits up again, but turns away this time, starting to shake. This is it, he thinks. The tears will come now and it'll be at least another hour in the heat before I can go back inside.

He feels her face him again, but he refuses to look.

"Peter..."

Giving in, he turns to ask her what she wants him to do. As the blast of the Browning echoes between the building, he cries out her name.

"I am always going to love you."