Gave Him Life

She held his hand in both of hers gently against her chest. His hand against her chest, he could feel the rhythmic movements of her breath, the very thing that gave her life, which once, he believed, gave him life. At this moment he was not wrong to question. Others would think him selfish, especially she. Never though, would she verbalize that accusation. An outsider would observe their relationship, this present situation and say that he blew everything out of proportion. Humans are flawed though; here he wore his own on his sleeve for all to see. Relationships don’t work without trust he thought. Steadfastly he held onto that belief.

“I am not proud of it.” Softly she whispered, trying to look into his eyes but unable to because of the direction of his gaze, straight ahead not focused on the road but on the tumult which occupied his mind. “It’s not something that I like to tell people.” She said as he began to pull his hand away. Not giving up on him, she continued to hold. “It’s not even that important.”

“That’s not even it. What bothers me is the fact that you won’t tell me.”

“I have never really told anyone.”

“I’m not just anyone, am I? You’re not just anyone to me.” He confessed shakily.

“You know what I mean. I’ll tell you someday. I promise that I will tell you before you leave.”

“Is that meant to comfort me?”

Silence filled the cab. Yes, he would leave eventually. It almost gave him enough reason to give up right then and there but he couldn’t find it in himself. She awkwardly stared away. His gaze shifted away from the road, to her face. She pretended not to notice. He studied how she bit her lip. What was she thinking? She bit her lip on occasion, but only when she was deep in thought. It was always a serious gesture. One would not even call it a gesture really. It was more of a seemingly unconscious tell. He had always wondered if she even knew that she did it. She had probably never realized it; she thought she was impenetrable, unreadable when it came to feelings, like a brick wall. She wasn’t. If she became aware of this slight marker in her body language she would certainly strive to end the habit. She almost never let her feelings show; she hid them almost as well as he did. He noticed the little things like that. He noticed a lot more about her then others did, maybe even her.

They brought out different things in each other or at least he would have liked to think that such was true. He knew, at least, what she brought out in him and wished that one day she would show him what he did to her. She brought out feelings, emotions, actions that would not have existed otherwise. This was almost the closest he had ever been to anyone in his life. The inner caverns of his existence were shrouded from all. He kept it that way, maybe not always on purpose. He was not quite sure if he even liked how he was but nevertheless he was what he was and change came hard. She was different. He knew this and attempted, perhaps in vain, to make this one count, to go for the gold. For her he would try with all his might to lift that shroud. Though he wished for change, he was the first to admit that this, all of this, scared him to death. Lots of things scared him though. This was not the first time that he manned up and admitted to himself that he was terrified. Though he was young, he was not as young as some. It didn’t matter if no one else noticed this, he did and in reality, what else matters?

He had lived, seen things, experienced things others had not. Growing up fatherless is not done with ease, and some don’t realize or appreciate this fact. He would never confess to anyone that he might have had a hard time. This was his shroud in action. It surrounded him and from what he had heard from his mother, the father that had not always been there, drowned in the same water. This paternal similarity was one of the aspects of his life which scared him, he admitted it, yet only to himself. It was recognized in the darkest hour of the night, when he was deep in thought and sometimes hurt. He felt that he could only count on himself to understand what drove him, his own personal catalyst.

He wished, though, that one day he would meet a girl, a girl that he could tell his story, about how life had handed him his share of lemons and how it had hurt. He would tell her how, in opposition to that struggle, he overcame. He wished that at the end of his days, he could tell that girl, some girl, that he was a champion of life and that she was securely part of the finished project, his own homestead built bravely in the wilderness of life’s expanses, but built nonetheless. He longed for that girl, who would serve as the sun to his moon. He was more than willing to chase her endlessly throughout time, if only for the minor satisfaction of one glimpse of her radiant glow before she set. This was the kind of girl that he longed for. How would he know her when they met? He would not recognize her of course. He would have to throw himself, wholeheartedly into the search, day after day, until he found the one that fit.

He pulled his hand away, she let it go, and he cracked his knuckles on the dashboard and again on the steering wheel. Cracking his knuckles was a nervous habit, but this was a deliberate move to separate their hands. He didn’t know why he wanted to let go. It was not out of anger; he hoped that she realized this. It was out of solitude, independence, he could think more clearly this way, without distraction. Though she did not look at him it was awkward as she waited for the return of his hand into hers. She eventually gave up and knew that it was not coming back. He brushed the hair off of his forehead. His hand passed his nose; it smelled of her.

He steered with his knee, his right hand on his right knee while that leg held down the gas, his left hand out of the cracked window. It was cold. She shivered. He returned his hand into the cab of the truck and rolled up the window. Though he was unsure of his feelings at the moment, he would never be able to stand the thought of her shivering. The thought of her being uncomfortable for any reason disgusted him.

Miles passed along with the dashes in the center of the two lane road. Minutes passed along with notes that made up the music, the soundtrack which serenaded their ride. It played ominously low, filling the silence that hung uneasily between the two. It was low because he had turned it down when she had first mentioned what she longed not to tell him. They both awkwardly suffered through the silence, the silence that was lined with the almost indiscernible music.

He wished he had not had this reaction, but he also believed it to be a crime to deny any feeling, fleeting or not. She wished that she had never mentioned it.

“You can tell me. I don’t mean to pry but you brought this up, what do you expect me to do?” He felt like he was almost begging. In his mind, begging was worth this, begging was worth her.

They both knew that they would not last. They could not last. Life had each taking different routes, though he would set upon his far sooner. They did not doubt the existence of these different roads which constantly loomed in the distance, like early morning fog on a nameless road. But in this moment, was there any harm in trying to have, to experience something, something real? Real like lounging on a southern porch watching fireflies dance on some hot summer night. Real like conversations three thousand miles away from home at four in the morning. Real like the smell of summer, of grass, of dirt, of baseball. Real like the smell of Christmas. Real like standing on a hill at night over a town that in the morning would no longer be home. They saw nothing wrong with the attempt and as the universe goes, there is no wrong in it. She wanted this to work. He wanted this to work. This would be one last hurrah, the last sweet memory of a tiny town which parented him from childhood to adulthood, a part of him that he vowed never to forget. He vowed never to forget her. This would not end here, not now. He would work it out, they would work it out. She would understand what he was going on in his head, what was on his plate, what was expected of him. Maybe she was not his forever but she was his memory or at least a portion of it, a portion which he so longed to be perfect, his fairy tale.

“You don’t tell me your secrets.” She had run out of excuses.

“How have you become so sure that I even have secrets? Of course I do, everyone does. I don’t tell you them because you don’t ask, and I don’t bring them up. If you asked, I promise you that I would not hesitate to answer any question that you posed, damn the outcome. I want this to be true. Can’t this be true? Can’t we be true? We only have so long. I don’t want to waste it on little things like this.”

“Then drop it, we won’t waste another second.” She spat out confidently.

“Put yourself in my position, would you not act the same?”

She stared at him blankly. He had left her speechless. She racked her brain for a reply. His argument was logical, though it was based on emotions, which have proven throughout time to be the essence of what is deemed illogical. He wondered if he was breaking her. Not breaking her though, he wondered if he was getting through to her, that’s what he wondered.

The silence returned, taking front seat to their conversation. The uneasiness set in. He wished that she would just tell him, that she would delve. He would understand, no matter what. He owed her that for the way she made him feel. He owed her more then she even knew. He would not judge her. This aching that he felt was worse then anything that she could lay upon the table. He wished that she would end this now, the chaos which panged his heart and mind. He didn’t need this, not now. She knew it. She worried though. She worried when worrying was not needed. She only had to look at him to know that he was sincere when he said that he would understand. He cared for her as she for him. They could lie for hours, speaking not one word, and be as comfortable as a pair of sailors on the high seas. This uneasiness was foreign to both. He wished that it would end; she wished that it would end. He wished that she would tell him, she wished that he would stop this. They drove. The sound of the tires and the faint murmur of the speakers filled their ears but they didn’t hear. They were somewhere else, with each other, begging the other to bail them out of the jail that was this misery. They had not felt this before. They drove. The sound of the tires and the faint murmur of the speakers filled their ears but they didn’t hear. It began to rain. He let her know.