The lights were off, but her room was not dark. Her silver Ikea desk lap was on low, pointed at the glowing laptop she cradled in her lap. She wanted to light candles, but didn’t want the smell to disturb her sleeping dog, so she kept her cat light on her nightstand, where it pulsated softly in blue and green and indigo.
But the words would not come.
They flit almost convincingly through threads of thought, but disappear in a jumble of tangles as soon as they get past her elbows. And that was just it. Just a little. bit. further. come on, you jerks. I’ve been giving you life for how many years now, and you can’t make the measly journey down my forearms?
You’re too happy, they say. You spend your idle time at work daydreaming about the weekends, reliving particularly choice moments with a happily little sigh or giggle. Or both. In that order. And we. don’t. like it. You live in images now, pictures pulled from your memory (of which you have been informed is NOT like a filing cabinet, but a complex array of nerves and triggers). You see physical things now: the stage, the lights, the color, the honeydew and cantaloupe ice, the color of his shirt, her belt that you admired, the line outside Ruby Skye, the naan and the curry, the movie playing on the wall, the silhouette of the car.
Where’s the stuff you used to see? The rip-roaring torrent of unrequited love, the cut that bleeds but won’t scar, the reflection in gold-gilded mirrors. We want that again. It was so full, so strong, so raw. This… this is so… rose-hued and soft and …. trailing. As if you were disappearing into a memory. And there you go again, come back we haven’t finished with you yet!
You ponder this for a moment, before admitting it’s all true. I could write this new happy stuff stronger, more raw. (Without fluff, they chime in.) Unnecessarily, because fluff is reserved for writing about happy moments with your bestest and dearest; it doesn’t mean to come out fluff but when you try to write about your best friends and a favorite unsad incident, fluff is what tends to come out.
I could write raw. About Love, you add, because they don’t seem to be able to follow raw and happy in the same breath. It would just be.. you know, and you blush. Inappropriate.
Writing about blood splatters across porcelain sinks isn’t exactly PG either, they point out.
So you try. (Even if it starts out rose-hued anyway).
They were rapidly approaching the one year mark.
One year ago, today, they had walked across a stage in a ridiculous, black, billowing costume with much pomp and circumstance.
That is not very happy. or raw. They are quick to point out.
It was the look that was impossible to describe.
That his eyes were the window to his soul is a dumb, dumb cliche. But he would do this thing, when he looked at her. And sure, he probably looked at her a hundred times in a day. But those weren’t the look. The look containing something beautiful in the eyes, in the pupil in the iris when he looked at her in that way – that way that remained absolutely and resolutely inexplicable.
And here I end it. I haven’t found the perfect words for it yet.