speeding up or slowing down?
Jul. 28th, 2001 03:41 amSometimes Darkside's eyes tell me I should kiss him. I chicken out.
Sometimes Darkside's eyes tell me I should kiss him. The staff of the cafeteria gazes thoughtfully in our direction over their coffee; there are few people here this early in the morning. I chicken out.
Sometimes Darkside's eyes shine with general happiness and contentment and I want to take him by both hands and dance with him. I look at my clumsy feet, I look at his hands, I look at my hands, and I imagine the look of betrayal on his face if I should suddenly grasp him by both hands and let my soul fill my own eyes.
Sometimes I reach to hug him goodbye, to have him duck away, look at me with hurt, me bite my lip and wave a salute at him and wander off. I've sworn he won't make me cry. If I tried to make myself think that he can't make me cry I'd be lying and we both know it. If I tried to make myself think that he would ever make me cry on purpose I'd be betraying us both.
Sometimes I think it's moving too fast, that we should stay friends forever, never touching, never touched, but for our eyes and our hearts. Sometimes I know we're moving too slowly: I should have kissed him in December, laced our fingers together and whispered "I could love you...," not allowing the heartbreak that followed. I should have told him outright after Shrimpy's spell was dispelled -- "Your idiot classmate made me feel that way for you for those days; the only reason his misfire worked at all was because it was already there; he just woke it up. I had a crush on you from day one. I stomped on it and folded it flat and ignored it for a time. Now it won't be ignored. You are my friend, and I would like to date you. Just to see..."
A month ago, he shied away if I put a hand near his head. Yesterday morning I wrapped my hands around his throat in symbolic irritation about his schedule -- his classes began at nine, mine at seven -- and he critiqued me on my grasp and the amount of damage it would do, then wrapped his own hands about my throat to demonstrate. He is so very warm. His hands are strong. He still shies away every now and then if we brush hands with no particular reason, if my finger begins of its own will to stroke his hand. "Joan, quit it." I'm learning the boundaries. He's learning the boundaries, and as he learns them, every now and then backs them up, lowering fences, lowering barriers, lowering the spiked constructs of his will to be alone. Or I drop them for him -- what he does unto me, I may then do unto him one-tenth as much, gradually increasing until we are equal. We have always been equal, in my heart and mind, each with our own areas of skill, each with our own boundaries, but no automatic senior, but by chronological age; no automatic higher, but by physical height. One moment I am as an elder sister, but by a year or a few minutes; the next, he is the elder and I listen. Twins, effectively, though he is older; but I have lived away from my parents and he has not. I do not automatically assume he knows more; I never automatically assume he knows less. We are both the experts. We are an even match, physically. Sometimes he wins. Sometimes I win. Some days we call it a draw.
One day, not too far away, we will both win.
Sometimes Darkside's eyes tell me I should kiss him. The staff of the cafeteria gazes thoughtfully in our direction over their coffee; there are few people here this early in the morning. I chicken out.
Sometimes Darkside's eyes shine with general happiness and contentment and I want to take him by both hands and dance with him. I look at my clumsy feet, I look at his hands, I look at my hands, and I imagine the look of betrayal on his face if I should suddenly grasp him by both hands and let my soul fill my own eyes.
Sometimes I reach to hug him goodbye, to have him duck away, look at me with hurt, me bite my lip and wave a salute at him and wander off. I've sworn he won't make me cry. If I tried to make myself think that he can't make me cry I'd be lying and we both know it. If I tried to make myself think that he would ever make me cry on purpose I'd be betraying us both.
Sometimes I think it's moving too fast, that we should stay friends forever, never touching, never touched, but for our eyes and our hearts. Sometimes I know we're moving too slowly: I should have kissed him in December, laced our fingers together and whispered "I could love you...," not allowing the heartbreak that followed. I should have told him outright after Shrimpy's spell was dispelled -- "Your idiot classmate made me feel that way for you for those days; the only reason his misfire worked at all was because it was already there; he just woke it up. I had a crush on you from day one. I stomped on it and folded it flat and ignored it for a time. Now it won't be ignored. You are my friend, and I would like to date you. Just to see..."
A month ago, he shied away if I put a hand near his head. Yesterday morning I wrapped my hands around his throat in symbolic irritation about his schedule -- his classes began at nine, mine at seven -- and he critiqued me on my grasp and the amount of damage it would do, then wrapped his own hands about my throat to demonstrate. He is so very warm. His hands are strong. He still shies away every now and then if we brush hands with no particular reason, if my finger begins of its own will to stroke his hand. "Joan, quit it." I'm learning the boundaries. He's learning the boundaries, and as he learns them, every now and then backs them up, lowering fences, lowering barriers, lowering the spiked constructs of his will to be alone. Or I drop them for him -- what he does unto me, I may then do unto him one-tenth as much, gradually increasing until we are equal. We have always been equal, in my heart and mind, each with our own areas of skill, each with our own boundaries, but no automatic senior, but by chronological age; no automatic higher, but by physical height. One moment I am as an elder sister, but by a year or a few minutes; the next, he is the elder and I listen. Twins, effectively, though he is older; but I have lived away from my parents and he has not. I do not automatically assume he knows more; I never automatically assume he knows less. We are both the experts. We are an even match, physically. Sometimes he wins. Sometimes I win. Some days we call it a draw.
One day, not too far away, we will both win.