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Sleeping on the Couch.
Mar. 23rd, 2008 01:51 amFred's hand formed a small, but effectively made fist and pounded it against her pillow. Newton's 2nd Law flitted between various corners of her head as she found a small amount of release in the thwap thwap of down and fluff. It was all together too warm, and warmer still from her frustrations, so she flipped the pillow over. Fred stared thoughtfully at the expanse of white pillowcase that positively loomed, and it obliged by staring right back.
"What are you looking at," she muttered, aware of just how awake her voice sounded. A voice that was nourished into being on sweet tea, watermelon and bbq still edged with the crisp tones of the awfully aware. And awake. She couldn't forget the awake part. Fred's fist connected with the pillow again.
The apartment was strange enough to begin with. Oh sure, it was filled with all the comforts of home and even familiar reminders of her childhood. There was the dresser her daddy had painted over white when she was twelve. The quilt that her grandmother made, And even her old had, which was really mama's hat once removed from when she gardened. But she'd taken a liking to it somewhere between the ages of five and six. And it was Fred's ever since.
But it was still an apartment. Which of course meant that it wasn't the hotel. So the perfectly nice became the overly quiet and no matter how many things Fred shoved into all the spaces? She never could seem to fill up enough to that her voice and her footsteps and ever the space her body took up didn't echo too loudly back. They were all a phone call away. But they used to just be separated by a shout.
It was bad enough trying to fall asleep with things so far apart. But now she was full of the feeling of not close enough. Which is something else entirely. Her skin itched with it. It fired up and down the back of her legs and then up and over her stomach and shoulders in no real order. It wasn't irritating or even frustrating. It was awareness, plain and raw.
And when it was done with her skin it just slid over and took its place in the bed next to her. It was in her pillow and under her quilt and radiating heat and why was she sweating? That couldn't be called anything but annoying. Any other night and Fred could've happily curled up in the middle of her bed to sleep, spread across it in a possessive mattress-claiming angle that left no argument of just who it belonged to. But now there was this negative space. Sitting there, staring like the pillow. Fighting to make it's own claim. The what-was-not was making her itch again.
The want was.
( Read more... )
"What are you looking at," she muttered, aware of just how awake her voice sounded. A voice that was nourished into being on sweet tea, watermelon and bbq still edged with the crisp tones of the awfully aware. And awake. She couldn't forget the awake part. Fred's fist connected with the pillow again.
The apartment was strange enough to begin with. Oh sure, it was filled with all the comforts of home and even familiar reminders of her childhood. There was the dresser her daddy had painted over white when she was twelve. The quilt that her grandmother made, And even her old had, which was really mama's hat once removed from when she gardened. But she'd taken a liking to it somewhere between the ages of five and six. And it was Fred's ever since.
But it was still an apartment. Which of course meant that it wasn't the hotel. So the perfectly nice became the overly quiet and no matter how many things Fred shoved into all the spaces? She never could seem to fill up enough to that her voice and her footsteps and ever the space her body took up didn't echo too loudly back. They were all a phone call away. But they used to just be separated by a shout.
It was bad enough trying to fall asleep with things so far apart. But now she was full of the feeling of not close enough. Which is something else entirely. Her skin itched with it. It fired up and down the back of her legs and then up and over her stomach and shoulders in no real order. It wasn't irritating or even frustrating. It was awareness, plain and raw.
And when it was done with her skin it just slid over and took its place in the bed next to her. It was in her pillow and under her quilt and radiating heat and why was she sweating? That couldn't be called anything but annoying. Any other night and Fred could've happily curled up in the middle of her bed to sleep, spread across it in a possessive mattress-claiming angle that left no argument of just who it belonged to. But now there was this negative space. Sitting there, staring like the pillow. Fighting to make it's own claim. The what-was-not was making her itch again.
The want was.
( Read more... )
