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The Halcyon Days

Before it got dark

By Carrie Elizabeth BicePublished 5 years ago 5 min read
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Egon Shiele - Seated Woman with Legs Drawn

We have our routine, I love our routine and I love you. I whispered it over and over until I fell asleep last night, I don't remember my dreams but I remember those moments before.

We live like we're married; not slaves to routine but like children who benefit from consistency. We work, I sit in the car and read until you're off. You knock on the window when I forget to unlock the door. We kiss, I tell you I've missed you, you stroke my messy hair and complain when I wear it up instead of down. We drive to the liquor store, we drive home and watch the movies I picked up from the library for us. You cook food for me and tell me to go back and watch the movie because you get nervous when I sit on the counters and watch you. I'm always afraid you're going to cut yourself or burn yourself and I can't stand the thought of you in pain. We laugh and kiss and drink and sit together, able to breathe and be and exist. Content and at peace with the fact that I don't have to pretend I don't know you, I feel like I know you better than anyone, but I don't know if that is true. There's so much I don't know, you know so much. I have a set of keys that unlock your doors. I sometimes wonder why you have two sets. I wonder if this is a standard practice at your place of residency or if you requested them because there used to be someone who put them in their coat pocket before me. I like this privilege. I like that I can drive to your house half asleep and find myself in your sheets without having to knock. I nestle myself against your chest, I unbutton the third button on your size small, slim fit dress shirt so that you can sit more comfortably. I look at your Cupid's bow and brush the strawberry pigment with my little fingers and then my lips. When we're both drunk you lay on the floor and I lay on top of you, we fall asleep like this about once a week but I always wake up and then call you to bed. You start the coffee the night before and bring it into the bedroom. The smell isn't overwhelming. In the morning you drink the cold coffee and always complain saying that it's terrible. I tell you I'll wake up ten minutes before you (I usually do anyways) and make the coffee so that it's hot and more pleasant. You refuse this idea. In this way you are a slave to routine. Sometimes you do things that are miserable and easily avoidable and that idiosyncrasy drives me insane. I think I desire your happiness more than you do. You set your alarms an hour before it is necessary; this only bothers me when I have to wake up at the same time as you and do not have the luxury of sleeping in. The song I’ve heard a hundred times this summer blares from your phone, the alarm clock on your bedside table beeps incessantly, the sun pierces through my eyelids and I roll over onto your body for relief. I think about a time in the future where I will hear this song and not have your scent to breathe in, the feeling makes my chest feel hollow and cavernous. 5:30 shines red on the clock, the beeping begins. You pause the sound only for it to resume a few minutes in the future. My eyes stay shut, but I am aware of your presence. You lay on your stomach and read the paper with the quilt that Auralie made for you draped over your shoulders. I look up and smile. The sun starts the break through the darkness. Your apartment doesn't have a good view but the sunlight shines through most excellently and casts beautiful shadows. You buy me Perrier that I drink too quickly in the middle of the night. When you drink too fast you always say excuse me. We walk outside, you light my cigarette for me. You're a head taller than me so you have to bend down when you want to kiss me; when I want to kiss you I extend my calves and pull you closer. You offer me your coat, I'm rarely cold and I know that your thin frame needs the extra warmth more than I. I get in bed and you adjust the blankets for me to be more comfortable. You float the comforter over my body and it reminds me of being a child in a gymnasium finding solace underneath a rainbow colored mushroom cloud of nylon. We only have one pillow, sometimes I sleep on it, sometimes you sleep on it and I sleep on your chest, or arm, or shoulder, or back. We're always entangled, when we're not I feel lost and have to make my way back to you. I use your toothbrush. I used your toothbrush the first night I ever spent in your apartment. The one with the plants on the window sills, the empty bottles, the odd assortment of music and movies, the literature, the Nazi literature, the handwritten notes and Polaroid pictures, the treasures you keep on the table in your room. We kissed near your island, I said you tasted like clover. You endlessly are consumed by the way I smell, your scent is my favorite and my nose burns when I cannot smell it. We took a bath together because you wanted to innocently see my body, the one you'd thought about during the summer months. I thought about you during the summer months. One of your letters said you loved me, but that was from a distance and I don't know if you do anymore. We drunkenly say how much we miss one another, I say that you don't mean it and you say that every second I'm not with you you miss me.

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