The Contradiction of Solitude(18)

“Is that okay?” I asked, dropping my hand onto the blanket so that it lay between us, only inches from his leg. I bent my fingers, scrunching them, and then laying them flat. Restless things itching to move and touch.

Elian gave me a small smile but didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

We sat together listening to the musicians play loud, obnoxious music. The vibrations of the bass shook my bones and I wished it would stop. People stood in front of us, obstructing our view of the band.

“Do you want to move closer? So we can see the stage?” Elian asked, craning his neck to try to see. I knew that his group of friends, including the territorial Margie, were nearby watching us.

“Okay,” I agreed, getting to my feet. Elian looked surprised again. His preconceived ideas of me were amusing. I would enjoy shattering them. And upholding them.

He wiped his hands on his jeans and then held his hand out. I knew he wanted me to take it. To interlace my fingers with his like children skipping down a street. Palm to palm, the heat of him infiltrating my chill.

I knew he expected me to comply in a mindless promise. Skin to skin.

I tucked my hands into the pockets of my pants.

Elian seemed embarrassed. Confused even. His dancing green eyes darkening ever slightly. “Shall we?” I asked, inclining my head toward the stage.

His eyes cleared, and the smile tinged with disingenuous mirth returned. His mask firmly in place.

I was close enough to see the thud of his pulse in his neck. Tick. Tock. Thud. Thud. Like a clock. Constant.

I didn’t want to hold his hand but I wanted to touch his skin. Right there. Where the tender, vulnerable skin thumped steadily.

“Okay,” Elian said, his hand once again by his side. The hand that had waited for mine. I followed him through the crowd, my feet shadowing his steps.

We stood in the sea of people, listening to music I didn’t like, our arms brushing against each other. He looked down at me, his tall frame towering over me. His head brushing the clouds.

Buzz..…

I reached out, fingers tiptoeing over skin, gliding, sliding until they fit into the curves and planes of his hand. Palm to Palm. Heat to chill.

Elian startled slightly, and I wondered if he could feel how cold I was. Inside.

Could he tell how hard it was for my heart to beat?

How my clock had stopped a long time ago?





“Layna, your paper was delivered to me again,” Mrs. Statham smiled, her swollen, red gums appearing above stained, yellow teeth.

“Thank you. Would you like to come in for some tea?” I asked, confident that my invitation wouldn’t be accepted. Which was the only reason it was given.

“Oh, I can’t. Gettin’ my hair washed and set. It’s Thursday, you know,” she informed me. I knew the old woman’s schedule. Just as she made it a point to know mine. She was an observer in her own, nosy way.

“That’s right. Well another time then,” I said with a smile.

“I’ll bring you some peanut butter crunch cookies later. I’m trying out a new recipe before my granddaughter comes to visit.”

“When is she coming?” I asked.

“In a couple of weeks. She’s about your age. Maybe a little older. How old are you again?” I eyed the older woman speculatively, knowing exactly what she was doing. She had been trying to glean information out of me since I had moved in. She wasn’t in the slightest bit subtle.

“Twenty-four,” I replied, feeling no need to lie. I typically held my truths close to my chest, revealing none. But there was no harm in giving Mrs. Statham what she was looking for.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t spoil.

I didn’t bleed afterwards.

Mrs. Statham clicked her tongue several times, her eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Danielle is twenty-eight. She’s been working in the city for a few years now. She’s close enough that it shouldn’t take her six months to come see her grandmother, that’s for sure,” Mrs. Statham remarked sternly, already discarding the information I had given her.

Insignificant.

Unimportant.

She had no idea.

“People get busy,” I offered, backing away from the door, knowing the conversation was nearing its inevitable conclusion.

“True, true.” Mrs. Statham peered at me, eyes wanting to see so much. “You don’t leave your poor grandmother to pine after you, do you?”

“I don’t have a grandmother,” I reminded her. She knew the story I had told her. Sprinkled with the reality I had come to know. Some honesty that made it real.

“Oh that’s right. You lost your parents and grandparents. I’m sorry about that. It’s a shame that such a beautiful girl like you is all alone in the world,” Mrs. Statham exclaimed without tact. If I were an emotional woman, her words would have wounded.

But there was no pain.

“I have to get ready for work. And you have hair to wash and set, Mrs. Statham,” I reminded her, getting annoyed, wishing she’d leave.

Mrs. Statham clucked her tongue again. “That’s right. I’m going to be late. I’ll come by later.”

I didn’t bother to tell her that I would be at work later. I’d let her come by to find me not at home. Her future disappointment almost made me smile.

“Bye, Mrs. Statham,” I said and closed the door as she turned to leave, more words on her lips that I didn’t want to hear.