Life Movie

She hadn't been here in forever. Some would call it home, but it's not that. It's a pause. A gap. A break that she's forced to take before she can press play on the movie that is her life. She watched the people, her family, through the living room window like it was a movie screen. Her mom, with the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, taking notes with pen and paper, she's still dressed for work. Her dad sitting in his old leather chair watching his son play a video game. They were going to hate her for this, but she did it anyway. She walked to the front door and knocked. Pausing her life movie, but making their jump a scene.

--

She doesn't have a plan. She hadn't even attempted to come up with one. All she knew was that she needed to press play on her life movie. In order to do that, she needed to go somewhere, anywhere, so that she could breathe. So she packed her bags. She stuffed in the basics. Jeans, t-shirts, and a sweater. The sweater is what got to her. It reminded her of everything she hated about her home. It brought back a feeling of unhappiness. The sweater made her skin crawl and chest tighten. It was as if the thin threads of cotton were alive and moving. The buttons moved closer and closer to the side seam, causing the entire thing to tighten, she was constricted. She couldn't breathe in air anymore, her body rejected it like poison. To compensate for the loss, her head decided to launch into the water and it swam. She felt light for five pounds of her heart, then fish turned into black dots and stars that floated around her room. They took her lightness, she felt heavy again. She choked on water before resurfacing. The new knocking at her door echoed while assisting her in breaking the surface. Still floating, she asked the person knocking for a moment, their response rung and echoed. She climbed onto her bed. Once she was on dry land, she looked at the sweater in her hands. It was pretty. A cap-sleeve v-neck with a loose bodice. It was her favorite. She folded it and tucked it into her suitcase.

--

She got out of that place, her home. It took forever, it took a lot, but she gave it everything. She gave it all her time and willpower, feeding it until its stomach bulged. Swelling until it burst. The chains holding her home snapped, setting her free. Her life movie picked up close to the climax. The first scene was of her and a train car full of people. The train's wheels rattled as the machine itself fought to straighten out while it took a turn with all its power. A person controlled the movement. A person caused for everyone's body on that train to lean over and tighten their cores. She and everyone on that train fought gravity. Actions have consequences. This person was causing this machine to move, making her and dozens of others lean and tighten their cores and no one knew who it was. Actions have consequences even if you don't know who it is affecting. She knows this and doesn't care. If the person moving this machine causing its passengers to lean and tighten their cores doesn't care, why should she care that her family wants her to come back home? They cried, she called a cab. They shouldn't have been cast in her life movie to start with. Maybe she was cast in theirs and got a spin-off. She doesn't care, it's her life movie, she's the lead and all the supporting characters may lean and tighten their cores with her, but she's the star and he's her co-star.

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She loves him, all of him. Everything about him held her down onto his bed. His smell, his sweet smell that consisted of home-cooked meals, old-spice, and lavender. The lavender was her fault. The plants smell covered his neck and sides. Her forearms smell of lavender. It's the plants fault. His forearms smell of car oil. Her hips and back smell the same. Their skin is stained with smells. They taint each other. His skin. His skin is the earth. Lips like the plains, smooth and gentle. His hands, strong but callused, like mountains. His muscles are like gentle rolling hills. He is home. He is her home. He welcomes her in and casts her in his life movie. In this scene, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her in. They were close and they lived for it. He slid his hand up until his palm was able to spread across her upper back. When he spoke, his words were like warm honey. They made her feel good. When she spoke, it was with liquid honey-flavored medicine, disgusting but good for them both. She spoke of her family, of her home, of the sweater and drowning. She cried. His hand left her back and moved up to her hair, stroking it, he comforted her. He told her that he was her family, her home. She said she knew and that she loved him. He said that he knew and he loved her. The scene ended. Another started. They bought a house and two acres of forest. They lived simply. Just them and lavender, car oil, a sweater, and warm honey. Just them, with no need for liquid medicine words. They had a new thing. It was heat. Everything was hot. The world was on fire. She set the earth on fire. She set him on fire. He smelt of hot car oil and burning lavender essence. Warm honey boiled and its sugar crystallized. Their sweet memories would stay forever.

--

They are each other. There is no longer Yin and Yang, their good and evil is mixed perfectly for them. Black and white spun into a beautiful marble when they touched. As they grew dizzy, they stopped and relaxed into each other. They were grey, they were comfortable, but time, several decades, polished and shined the mixture until they resembled a precious metal. Silver. The color mimicked that of stars. They mimicked stars. For the few that have met them late at night, they shined, and during the day, those encounters lasted forever in the memories of the people they touched. The time they spent together clung to their skin and the memories weighed it down. They're old, but they still love like they used to. They love like art. Like old French paintings. Beautifully.