Back Down
The door squeaks as usual when I open it. Same as the coat closet,
where I tiredly deposit my light wind breaker and worn Nikes. Yeeh,
this place is screaming for some WD40. A paint job wouldn’t hurt
either. The walls are littered with botched nail holes. What can I
say? I’m no good at hanging pictures. Or keeping my hands off the
walls, like Momma always said. But it’s home. I like it. My small
apartment on Duraf Avenue, third story, suite 62. Yeah. Home.
After fixing myself a good-sized G&T, I flop bonelessly into the
once-maroon couch that dominates most of the living room. I say ‘into’
because the thing’s so old it gives completely under the slightest
weight. Damn, cheap rip-off. Never shoulda let the cute salesgirl talk
me into it. But it’s mine. So I like it. Not much has ever been mine.
And it’s like the embrace of an old friend, when the cushions fold
around me. I only ever had one real friend and he bolted months ago
for a war-buddy who stopped by to sweep him off his feet. Funny, I
never pegged Duo that way. Maybe if I had we wouldn’t a’ grown apart
so quickly.
Man, my mind still has trouble equating Duo with the word stranger.
But I can’t hate him for leaving me. He was never mine. Hell, I think
as I find the remote and flick on the vidset, if it weren’t that
loud-mouthed American, I wouldn’t have met her.
Her.
Ironically, she’s on the damn screen right now. The first thing I see.
Preaching again. Peace this, peace that, make love not war, blah blah
blah. That shit always turned me off. I mean, sure, I love peace, I
love being able to come home every night without a new bruise or blood
on my hands.
Hey, on that track, seems there’s a stain I missed right here.
Must be the liquor. I swish my iced gin thoughtfully. My mind is
wandering. But geez, all that preachy-speechy-spiel can bore a girl
after awhile. Anyone’s mind would roam. Really.
Or it could be the hooch.
High-n-Mighty lecture or not, I could listen to her voice for hours.
It’s just that type; Melodic, soothing, infinitely gentle. At the same
time fierce and impassioned. God she could rouse a hoard of mutes with
a voice like that.
Personally, I always thought her voice was her best feature. But, lo
and behold, the masses seem to disagree. I mean, her eyes are
incredible. Dark aqua, like looking at the Marianas Trench from an
airplane window. And framed by lashes that put Maybelline commercials
to shame. Gorgeous. Especially when she wears green. For some crazy
reason she does that rarely. Some diplomat shit, I bet. Her voice is
still better.
Well, in reiteration, green or not, she’s got the figure. Unlike me. I
guess your personality comes out in your body. She’s curvy, soft,
pastel and rose. I’m sharp and angular, pale skin, biting colors. As
opposite as opposite can get.
…And yet…we fit.
Oh god, we fit. So well. So damn well. Too damn well.
Wistful never suited me. I hate this mood. Maybe I shouldn’t think of
her, because thinking of her always brings me to this point. I’ve
tried that. Oh, I can’t help it. She’s so goddamned beautiful. Too
beautiful for a soldier like me.
Maybe it’s the liquor. Gotta be the liquor. I lean forward for a
better view of her fervent face.
Ah, Relena, my love. You’re so high now. Flying through breathless
air. I can see the birds hundreds of feet below, bowing. They idolize
you, but they can’t reach. Those heights are for you alone, the one
place I couldn’t follow. Because I can’t reach the stars. But if I
could…
You’ll stay there, on the crown of the stars, at the top of the world,
I think. For a long, long time. Until dreams can survive by themselves
again, and the world turns on an axis other than your effort. But you
won’t always be needed. And someday, the heights won’t be so high
anymore.
Me, I’ll sit here waiting on my frumpy couch, doing my mindless job
and losing my battle with age. It’ll be a long time to wait. But I
promised.
So I’ll be here when you come back down.
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