We sat for half an hour while I frantically tried to reattach it with duct tape and I grew increasingly hysterical with every failed attempt. The Starving Artist grabbed at my hands, my wrists; he begged me to stop crying, told me it was okay and that it could be fixed.
I cried when it started to rain.
We sat in silence while people mulled around the us, highlighted orange by passing cars. He started the car - a big, moss-green SUV - at which point the rear-view mirror toppled out of its bulky, improvised duct-tape base and crashed into the dashboard with a loud thud. It bounced to the floor at my feet; I picked it up and cradled it in my hands, turned it over and watched the way my tears trailed around the glass - just like the rain on the windows. He drove us to a nearby parking lot and did carthweels in the drizzle, sang songs and did somersaults, anything to make me stop.
We sat in silence while people mulled around the us, highlighted orange by passing cars. He started the car - a big, moss-green SUV - at which point the rear-view mirror toppled out of its bulky, improvised duct-tape base and crashed into the dashboard with a loud thud. It bounced to the floor at my feet; I picked it up and cradled it in my hands, turned it over and watched the way my tears trailed around the glass - just like the rain on the windows. He drove us to a nearby parking lot and did carthweels in the drizzle, sang songs and did somersaults, anything to make me stop.
I cried when it began to thunder.
He crawled into the passenger-side seat with me and played me songs with unmemorable lyrics and soft piano melodies. He squeezed me every time we saw the lightning and refused to loosen his grip until the thunder had passed; I cried harder and blew my nose into his favorite button-down shirt. He told me it would be okay and put his hands on my face, kissed my forehead.
I cried when he told me he loved me.
We made small, careful motions; his hands fumbled with the buttons of my cardigan and I, unsure, kissed the small, sensitive place where his neck and collarbones met. When I told him I loved him, too, he pressed his face into my shoulder and cried.
A month later, I sat in the dark at the edge of my bed and begged him to be there - to be alive - when I came back from Canada; he hung up the phone.
I stood in the shower under scalding hot water for three hours, hyperventilating, screaming, digging my nails into my arms until I bled.
I couldn't cry.
We made small, careful motions; his hands fumbled with the buttons of my cardigan and I, unsure, kissed the small, sensitive place where his neck and collarbones met. When I told him I loved him, too, he pressed his face into my shoulder and cried.
A month later, I sat in the dark at the edge of my bed and begged him to be there - to be alive - when I came back from Canada; he hung up the phone.
I stood in the shower under scalding hot water for three hours, hyperventilating, screaming, digging my nails into my arms until I bled.
I couldn't cry.
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