A Million Little Molecules

There are a million little molecules that interact with each other within your own body. Those million little molecules coexist peacefully with one another. But sometimes those molecules want more

The molecules want a different set of molecules to interact with, to melt together with.

One human body wants another human body.

"Are you writing this for something?" he asked, sitting in the terry cloth desk chair, eyebrow raised, flipping though the loose computer paper on the desk, black type italicized.

She snatched the paper, crumpling the edges a bit. "No. Not for something." Resettling back on the bed, she smoothed away the wrinkles lovingly, like a gardener with the soil around their flowers.

"Someone?" He reached out to touch her leg, fingers brushing gently against skin.

She tensed and he withdrew his hand.

They went back to their respective work, not quite focusing on the task in front of them.

--

And when the first million molecules meet the second?

Sometimes: Electricity

Others: Warmth

(Although the two could scientifically be considered the same).

There's molecular recognition, far deeper than the physical.

He switched off the bedside lamp. She never moved from her side, facing away from him. A silent rejection of his meddling.

Tomorrow… he thought, running his hand down her side, taking in the feel of her warm body… Tomorrow they would talk.

--

Unless tomorrow never came.

--

She floated, weightless, in an endless white washed chasm. She felt… celestial. As if she was part of the infinite universe, a star that was only a dot from light years away. Her conscious psyche knew that there was something wrong with this whole ordeal. But, to her subconscious, it felt perfect. As if she belonged there.

"Do you believe in an afterlife?" A kind voice no louder than the sound of the ocean in a conch shell asked.

"Yes." She replied, her voice sounding more like an echo than anything substantial to her conscious mind.

--

"Why?!" I screamed, tears running down my cheeks, washing away the dead skin… that's all you were now. All your beautiful molecules… dead skin…

He stared at the paper. The wind tussled paper. Never as perfect as it was right out of the container. Ruined by human touch.

Like the ground, in a way.

The ground that was dug up for her coffin, the last viewer of her molecules… her million little beautiful molecules…

end

Afterwards…

"Do you believe in an afterlife?" The wrinkled old man with the long white beard that needed a trim and the large circle glasses with thin wire rims that looked like they should be placed so delicately on someone else's nose and in front of kinder eyes than those green piercing ones that looked though you like an x-ray, no, deeper, than an x-ray, who smelled like dusty library books no one ever touches asked.

He blinked. "I guess…" he cautiously replied.

The old man shook his head. "You can't guess about something as huge as the afterlife. Either you believe in it or you don't. The green piercing eyes speared him.

He bit his bottom lip. "I want to see her. And I know she believed in an afterlife." He carefully responded.

The old man sighed. "She's here."

Startled, he began rambling, an excited ramble. "You know of her? Is she safe? Is she loved? Is she happy? Does she miss me? Can I see her?" He stopped his questions as the old man raised one wrinkled left hand.

"She's here. You may see her… but…" The old man shook his head. "She won't be happy." The old man's hand swept to his wrists and arms.

He turned the underside of his arms away from the piercing more than x-ray eyes. "I didn't want to go on without her…" he offered, as a way of explaining.

"She would have wanted you to." The old man quietly replied, motioning to he gates mostly hidden behind clouds, the golden pearls of bars glistening, and they slowly opened, as if a quick motion would shatter the beautiful illusion.

He started to run forward, but felt himself slip, falling towards what most certainly would be the destruction of his immortal soul. He rolled, then paused, slowly getting up, steadying himself, before he walked, delicately walked, as if he had been walking a god through the park.

By the time he reached the gates, they were fully opened. He stepped though, and was instantly-

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" She screamed, her face contorting into a horrible monster, twisted like every fairy tale villain ever imagined.

"I came to see you!" He protested to the fury hurled at him.

"YOU CAME TO SEE ME?!" Her rage tried to grasp onto something she could blame him for… "YOU'RE THE REASON I'M HERE!"

His hands turned to fists, the cuts on his arms beginning to bleed.

She stared at the blood. "You aren't dead…" The realization whispered like a light breeze dances across the ocean. Her fingers reached out to touch him, to pull him closer to her…

He glanced down at his arms. "No…" He was fading, then, fading away from her. "I suppose I'm not…"

--

He would wake up with his head against the cool bathroom floor, his hair matted with his blood that had welled and pooled around him, encompassing him like a cocoon.

If she was so angry with his apparent death… and so eager to touch him if he was alive… she loved him… and he would hold onto that thought as he sat up in his blood…

--

The old man dipped his feathered pen into the black ink, green eyes that pierced more than x-rays squinting. In an elegant script, a journal entry of the day at the golden pearly gates began:

She came, heart broken, feeling unaccepted, in the deepest thralls of sleep, looking for what she thought she was missing.

He followed, violently, though, searching for what he knew he was missing, wanting answers and wanting her.

But she wanted more for him… so she dealt with his appearance the only way she knew how: anger.

And when he was gone? When he was back among the living?

Her million little molecules began healing themselves in anticipation of his return to her…