I’m surprised she never hit me. Maybe because I gave her permission she thought it wouldn’t hurt. That’s all she cared for, anyway. The sun fell upon Sophia’s eyes as she sat passenger, her face rested apathetically against the window. With a sigh she lifted her head and pulled down the mirror to adjust her lipstick. Upon seeing herself she shook her head in frustration then lightly brushed her lips pink. I sunk into my seat as we transferred freeways, eyes adjusting to the orange light beaming through my dirty windshield.
“How’s your mom?” I asked, though I knew what she’d say. I did this often. Just to let her stab me, to let her know I cared. “She’s fine. Just tired.” There was no better way to describe her family. Her mother worked long shifts at a nearby hospital, always with sunken eyes whenever she passed us in her living room. Her father was the same. He worked construction and spent all day lifting and moving and building and breaking. An ache, yawn, and stretch greeted us before he did when we met him for cheap tacos and La Michoacana ice cream. I respected their exhaustion. If anyone was allowed to complain, it was them.
It was month four but I’m not sure she remembered. Sophia regarded me like a stranger. A stranger that kissed and touched and loved her but was, ultimately, just a visitor. Unless I was below or within her I was a problem, so I learned to like being solved. Old cobblestone walls blurred together as we pulled off the freeway. I couldn’t stop a habit: “Are you mad at me?” I asked. She sighed deeply and put her hand to her temple, brushing me off. Her eyes wouldn’t find me, and found every chance not to. This was love, or something like it.
The parking garage simmered former sunshine as we walked toward the street. In the night’s warmth I gushed over the theater, a small arthouse cinema I had laughed, cried, and burned in; a comfort from the world. “I was so lucky to see Paris, Texas on film, I mean god it was beautiful I’ve never experienced anything like it” I rambled, adjusting my beige shoulder-bag. “Yeah I’m sure. I bet your other girlfriend liked that movie, too” she scoffed, pushing my waist in the direction of the theater before I made a wrong turn. It was better to stop when she started. As we approached the small marquee, my hand drifted to hers—she stuffed her hands in her pocket. We walked through the theater’s yellow glass doors and she thanked the man holding them open. I glared at him with an acidic envy, then silently nodded my head in gratitude.
I made my way through the aisles and she walked behind me, playfully kicking my legs. I stumbled, but caught my balance and sat down. She smirked for a moment, before begrudgingly sitting down next to me. After a few moments of awkward silence, a young man appeared from behind the screen and began discussing our film: Death Becomes Her. I found myself enamored with his presentation. She leaned over and whispered harshly “He’s just like you.” Without elaboration, I knew she meant as annoying as you. I frowned and turned my head back to the screen, growing dim with the lights as I quietly sipped my Hi-C, being careful that I wasn’t too loud. A silent resentment hid behind her lips, but not well. She reached over and grabbed my hand reluctantly, out of bitter consolation. Her nails pressed against my palm and I tried to relax. I wished she’d rub my thumb, but I’d take pain over absence.
“Are you about to break up with me?” I asked again, anxiety built in my throat. She hadn’t said a word since we’d left the theater, just stared at me in sour resignation. “No” she responded dryly, moving my hand from her thigh. She turned away and street lamps stroked her eyes, her sharp brows furrowed. Even in resentment she was beautiful. Alley by alley, we drove in silence. I kept my eyes straight, grip on the wheel solid as a student. I turned the way she had told me without error and maintained the proper speed until we arrived.
Her mid-century house could not fulfill its nuclear family dreams. All day and all night her mother toiled at the hospital, her father a guest in the home he made. The weary house slouched as overgrown weeds canvassed what concrete was still visible. We walked through her door which hung off its hinges from a careless police raid, and then it began.
She tossed her purse on the neglected dining room table as she passed it, stopping in that lifeless living room. Even occupied, it felt vacant; a display one walked through but never remained. A few feet behind her I waited, silent and obedient like she’d trained me. The other dog, the one she liked, greeted her from a thousand years of waiting, and she enveloped him in her warmth. Praising, rubbing, touching, kissing. I remembered this comfort vaguely.
When she first came to my room I grew numb in her arms—clay to shape however she pleased. Under neon lights and college white walls her arms and legs collected my body, generous sweetness engulfing every inch of my soul. She massaged my mind without asking and remembered every affection, every weakness. Upon her chest I laid to let her do what she wanted. Intimacy was a privilege, one only afforded in my weakness. Her touch, her words, her kiss was holy. I would praise it all if I could, but she wouldn’t let me. She never would.
After the dog walked away, tail bouncing behind him, she began to pace her aged, battered floors. I moved closer, slightly shaking as the wood groaned beneath me, preparing for the worst. The air grew tight as I approached her with staggered breaths.
I touched her shoulder lightly like a child in the middle of the night and she turned to me with sickened fury. “I thought you said we were going to have a good day” I whispered, naively recounting her earlier kindness. “Then maybe you should go see your other girlfriend. Isn’t she what you want? Someone pretty who listens to all the pretentious shit you do?” she mocked me, scornfully pushing my hand away. By this point I was used to her blade, to the cuts she left. I had to play on her terms, so I did.
“Sophia, I want you” I pleaded. That never worked, but I had to start somewhere. “Yeah I’m fucking sure” she shot back, her eyes beating down on mine. “Five fucking girls Nico. You dated five fucking girls before me” she scoffed in disbelief “I only dated one.” Her eyes widened with the betrayal she craved. “I dropped everyone when you said to…” I replied, desperate in her desert. Her hands covered her face as she stormed to the dusty green couch where we had kissed, fought, and fucked everything up. She sat with her temple to her knees, arms covering her head as if awaiting bombardment. In vain, I pleaded, “Sophia, please…” She looked up at me, warm tears running down her cheek. I combed her eyes for stillness, she combined mine for contradiction. Suddenly, she embraced me, our bodies lightly shaking against one another. We fell on the couch and laid together, a mess of limbs and kisses and apologies. My fingers combed her hair and for a moment my breath steadied. But as quickly as she calmed, she lit up again: “I was so happy with you until I remembered you’re a man, and I don’t need men.” She began sobbing uncontrollably.
For the next few hours we teetered between chaos and calmness. She threw daggers then herself upon me, to lick the wounds clean. In the early hours of the morning she began loving me the only way she’d allow. Afterwards, we cuddled together on her couch and watched Gilmore Girls, laughing at their stupidity, their messiness. We could never be like them. We were rational and flawless and loving and kind. My lids fell each minute we laid together.
When the clock struck four I knew it was my time to go. In the bitter morning air we stood outside my car, fingers intertwined. “Do you hate me?” I asked like I always had. She smiled and shook her head, her hand coming up to caress my neck before kissing it and whispering “I could never hate you, mi lindo.” It was my redemption, my salvation. For my sin I was rewarded, if only momentarily. We kissed a few more times before she walked back inside that lonely, blue-grey house. As my car warmed I watched her disappear through my windows, turning my head back to the road.
All the way home I fought my body not to fall asleep. I woke moments before near-collisions, jolting myself awake before drowsiness set in once more. Dim light lit a road still bruised before me and I wondered whether it’d ever be fixed. At least it’s still there, I thought. Better bruised than broken. My car hummed and shook upon cooled concrete. Buzzing in my hand, I opened my phone to her message “Get home safe for me, baby.” And it was good, and it was love.
I really admire the pacing of you sentences and their change of focus. You don't linger on anything too long or rush off too quickly. I feel like I'm in the hands of a good director and editor team, ie with a movie, and they're confidently and stylishly moving from shot to shot