Old Moon
"But you promised--"
"Yeah! Well, just shut up about it already." I toss my drink down on the coffee table as it gives a groan of contempt. She cries some more, standing there like an idiot. I wish she would stop crying.
She's ruining the show.
"Steve, steve," she pleads, sliding down. I ignore her. "Goddamnit!" Her hair entangles her face, eclipsing her eyes until all that's left are shadows of what I used to see. Her fingertips are stained red.
I scratch where I itch. The Television bursts out in a peal of recorded laughter. I missed the scene.
The girl keeps crying, in her hands now. Her sobs are so loud it's almost a roaring in my ears. So I turn the volume up.
But when I glance at her, she reminds me of all the things that used to be good. I look away quickly, but it's too late.
"Get out--you're too loud," I say, fingering the remote with a damp palm. She makes me nervous, so I stand up and head towards the refrigerator for more beer, aiming for numbness.
As I cross the room, she stands up. I can see her hands shaking badly.
"Steven, you bastard." It's almost a whisper. It's almost a thought. But she said it, and it makes me angry.
"What!" I yell so harshly my voice cracks. "Fuck!" I punch the door, sliding my hand down so all the pictures perfectly pinned upon the yellowing fridge scatter to the floor and slide underneath shadows. My lip trembles.
I yank open the door, opening a beer and drinking it down despite the sharp stinging in my throat; one that trails down to my chest.
I pull back with a gasp of pleasure.
The girl pulls at my arm. Drool runs down the edge of her cheek.
"Why don't you care?" she asks, pressing her forehead against my chest. Her skin is hot, feverish. As she cries, her entire body shivers, like grass underneath the dew.
"What do you want me to tell you?" I say, pushing her away. "What?" She doesn't answer. I wish I could hate her. "Do you want me to tell you it was a mistake? 'It was a mistake sweetheart, I'll never leave you.' Fuck, you know better than that!"
As we stand in the kitchen, the light above us flickers on and off, so that one second I see her and when I blink, I don't. She might disspear, like that.
The couple from upstairs can be heard behind the din of the television. We stand in silence, save for the moans that reach us past the announcer--past her sadness. The cat from behind the apartment begins to wail. It's probably dying; it never cries for food. It grows louder still, more sorrow in it's cries than hers. I take another drink of my beer, wishing I could kill it.
Images of the woman from before creep into my thoughts. Images of her skin and lips, the curves and brown of her hair. Her husky voice and the wide eyed stare of her dark eyes. A pleasant thought, for an otherwise unpleasant night.
But now, in the present, I stare at the girl, the back of my neck suddenly aching with a fire. I rub it, but it does no good. She looks up at me, eyes wide and red, pleading in the most desperate of ways. Her hair is still tangled.
"Please," she says.
Instead of giving her what she wants the most, I step back, feeling her eyes burned into my mind. I reach the door and catch the flash of color from the T.V. When I step outside, I toss my beer can and look up into the night. A beautiful night.