Waiting To Exhale, chapter 1
Smile, breath, and go slowly. - Thich Nhat Hanh
October, 1988.
Autumn. The dying season when everything is fondled with brown and the broken leaves furl into their last gasping breath, when the neoteric greens of last spring dwindle away, unable to rekindle their own life.
As we loom into the tepid season, painted with hues of brown, orange, red, and yellow, we apprehend that we cannot play make believe anymore. Like the season itself, we grow older, we mature, we experience too many hardships to easily believe anything anymore. All we can do is hope that we keep breathing one more time than we already have, like stringing beads on a boundless line around our necks, ankles, and wrists.
I sit silently in my small car, drowning in a pool of monotonous words that called out from the familiar radio personality, Monster Max. Each word dangled on a string, like slow spinning redemption, winding in and winding out, threatening to tie themselves into a noose around my neck.
The broken leaves swirled around the wheels of my car along with the faintest whisper of the wind. The sparrows chirping outside fluttered by his car. I can't find the rewind button, I'm already here, so I cradle my head in my hands and breathe.
This wouldn't be easy.
"You're so odd, you know that?" He whispers delicately. This hair on the back of my neck stands up as he trails his fingertips along my chin and narrow hips. The autumn twilight came over us fast as we drifted along the restaraunt deck, lined with rocks that gaurded us from the tepid waters of the Pacific.
"Do you use that line on all your dates?" I ask playfully, pivoting my sheer dress around my thin frame as I climbed up on the rock that overlooked the sea. I expand my arms and feel the infectious sea breeze whip gently at my face and breath in deep.
"No. I don't use that phrase loosely," he answers. I see a smile play across his lips as he stands casually before me, still standing on the rock. I look down at him and smile, although I was tempted to do more.
"You must be very popular with the ladies." I swivel around to face the twinkling stars in the sky and sway a little.
"It's a nice night," he comments, shifting himself on the rock and standing behind me. I felt a nervous rush roll down my spine when I feel the warmth of his body against mine. His hands run down my smooth shoulders, scanning for a comfortable resting place, but not too comfortable.
"I once tried count them all," I pause to see an infectious grin spread across his face. "I only got to seven." He chuckles softly. I smell the faintest scent of his cologne waft over me and invade my nostrils gracefully. I watch the stars dance across his eyes as I feel his hands wrap around my waist and a string of words enter my ear. "You really are."
I smile when I jump out of my hypnosis and check back to reality. I push my toes farther into my shoes and step out of my fantasies. Trudging down the wide hallway of his New York home, I frown when I replay the memory in my head over and over, recalling our early days and how good things used to be.
Garnished with a pair of dark sunglasses, a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a red bandanna poorly fastened into his pathetic mop of brown hair, he stood patiently behind the kitchen island.
"Autumn..." He whispers shakily when he sees me. His expression is heartbreaking, and I try not to look at him when I managed to keep a apathetic expression, although my heart wasn't in it.
"Tom," I say breifly, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I just got a headache," he says. His eyes scan the counter while I walk towards him, setting my purse on the counter. "I'm a wreck," He bursts. I see a hurt expression flash over him as I put one arm around him, attempting to comfort him.
"We're all wrecks. It just depends on how well we hide it," I comment rather philosophically. I take a measure to enjoy the intake of his cologne while he he embraces me gently. The nineteen year old rests his chin on my head while the sound of the crickets outside lulled me into his chest. I rest my head against his chest, my hands on his arms, and close my eyes. There was something about this man that made me melt, that made me smile, that made me feel so good. I realize that this moment must be awkward, so I back away gracefully and brush my hair back.
"Do you still love me?"
I hear his words echoe through the house and waver my eyes between the countertop and his eyes.
Do I still love you? Absolutely. There's not a doubt in my mind. I can fall in love with you as many times as I can stand it, but all that it does is remind me that love is not enough. Not even close.
"Tom...we've been through this before," I say and bite my lip, trying not to cry. "I came here to comfort you."
"It's comforting to know that you still love me," he corners me into the kitchen counter. His hips push into mine and he grips the counter. I lean back and whisper, "Tell me what happened."
"I'm just so tired. I'm about ready to quit."
We sit quietly, in the dark on his leather couch while the nocturnal creatures of the night sing their baleful requiem. I can barely make out his profile as I tuck my legs under me and set my chin in my palm. The simple sound of his breathing felt like the blunder of wind that wailed over the roof tops all night long.
"If you're unhappy, leave. Don't stay. That's the only logical solution," I whisper. He leans back on the armrest of the couch and puts his feet up on the cushion. I can sense he's trying to be casual about the way we were situated. His stance and attitude remain emotionless. When we come down to nothing more than apathy, that's when we have the most emotions buzzing around. Not in our minds, or even expressions, but our hearts.
"It's not that simple. I can't just quit. I didn't build up my career for fifteen years to quit just because I freaked out on set," He pauses, "Why are we whispering?"
"I don't know," I whisper. "And you're the bad boy, you can do whatever you want," I joke. I feel him scooting closer when he sits upright in the dark. The infinitely questionable way he leaned forward and rested his hand in his chin surpised me. I tried to evade the fearful, yet curious thought that he was attempting to kiss me.
"Even though this is the career I've had since I was three, I don't think I've discovered my real reason, the thing I was meant to do. I'm not sure if there's a thing such a thing as destiny or what, but maybe this is what I was meant to do. I just don't feel it." His breath broke the fall of my smile when I look up to see him smiling back, in a bad boy way. My were now adjusted to the light, so I could make out a slight outline of his facial expression.
"Maybe you can cheat it."
"Cheat what?"
"Cheat destiny." I find myself in a hypnosis when he flashes his smiling eyes. Fondled with speckles of gold in his deep brown eyes, a few strands of hair hung over his eyelashes, evading the poorly tied bandanna around his forehead.
"You didn't answer my question," I say.
"What question?"
"I asked you what happened, you told me how you felt," I pause and ruffle his hair playfully, "Let me fix your hair."
I lean forward on my knees as he says, "Well I just got a little stressed because Jerry kept telling I wasn't saying the line right and Mandy kept saying I looked like shit...I just freaked out," he pauses, "a little."
"Yeah right." I run my delicate fingers through his hair, attempting to keep his wild mess of hair under control. "Knowing you, I believe it wasn't a little freak out."
"I got wasted, okay? I turned the table over and broke a door," he confesses. I enwreathe my hands around the back of his head and untie the knot. I leaned in closer, hoping the moment didn't seem too awkward. I sensed his eyes were drifting down my shirt, but I didn't care. It's not like he hasn't seen them before, and not like he'll see them again.
"I haven't used anything in three days."
His words are harsh and break the eery silence that washed over us for a moment while I re-tie the knot. No butchers blade could cut the look he gave me as I overshadowed him. He whispers into my ear, "I'm trying Autumn," like the cities' siren song that lulled me to sleep.
The scathing, almost unbearable urge to be with him and melt into him came over me. My girlish notions of romance leapt out when I recall the pleasant memories of us on the restaraunt deck and how our early days were so much better.
"You never answered my question," he whispers. "I asked you if you still loved me, you told me you weren't here for that, but it doesn't look like it to me." I feel a sudden embarrassment when I realize I'd climbed into his lap and had my legs wrapped around his waist. I try to pull back, but he keeps me from moving.
"You know, autumn is the dying season," he says, "You aren't dying are you?" I hear a shaky attitude in his voice.
"No. But my heart is." I feel tears well up in my eyes when he leans his forehead to mine.
"Hearts don't die, Autumn. They fall asleep."
His words cut into me like a hot knife. I cry silently, each tear rolling down my red cheeks slowly. I put my hand to his stubbly cheek and gasp. His salty skin taste sweet under my lips when I kiss on his forehead, then trail down his cheekbone and land on his lips.
This was not supposed to be happening.
He runs his hands down my arms as his fingertips chase each other along my spine. He kisses up and down my neck as I cry, hoping he would stop so I wouldn't regret anything in the morning. He breathes into my ear as I ruffle his hair unintentionally and reach for his belt buckle...
I've always felt that the only way I'd really matter is if I made a significant, original discovery, and I have.
He is the reason I am.
He is all my reasons.
October, 1988.
Autumn. The dying season when everything is fondled with brown and the broken leaves furl into their last gasping breath, when the neoteric greens of last spring dwindle away, unable to rekindle their own life.
As we loom into the tepid season, painted with hues of brown, orange, red, and yellow, we apprehend that we cannot play make believe anymore. Like the season itself, we grow older, we mature, we experience too many hardships to easily believe anything anymore. All we can do is hope that we keep breathing one more time than we already have, like stringing beads on a boundless line around our necks, ankles, and wrists.
I sit silently in my small car, drowning in a pool of monotonous words that called out from the familiar radio personality, Monster Max. Each word dangled on a string, like slow spinning redemption, winding in and winding out, threatening to tie themselves into a noose around my neck.
The broken leaves swirled around the wheels of my car along with the faintest whisper of the wind. The sparrows chirping outside fluttered by his car. I can't find the rewind button, I'm already here, so I cradle my head in my hands and breathe.
This wouldn't be easy.
"You're so odd, you know that?" He whispers delicately. This hair on the back of my neck stands up as he trails his fingertips along my chin and narrow hips. The autumn twilight came over us fast as we drifted along the restaraunt deck, lined with rocks that gaurded us from the tepid waters of the Pacific.
"Do you use that line on all your dates?" I ask playfully, pivoting my sheer dress around my thin frame as I climbed up on the rock that overlooked the sea. I expand my arms and feel the infectious sea breeze whip gently at my face and breath in deep.
"No. I don't use that phrase loosely," he answers. I see a smile play across his lips as he stands casually before me, still standing on the rock. I look down at him and smile, although I was tempted to do more.
"You must be very popular with the ladies." I swivel around to face the twinkling stars in the sky and sway a little.
"It's a nice night," he comments, shifting himself on the rock and standing behind me. I felt a nervous rush roll down my spine when I feel the warmth of his body against mine. His hands run down my smooth shoulders, scanning for a comfortable resting place, but not too comfortable.
"I once tried count them all," I pause to see an infectious grin spread across his face. "I only got to seven." He chuckles softly. I smell the faintest scent of his cologne waft over me and invade my nostrils gracefully. I watch the stars dance across his eyes as I feel his hands wrap around my waist and a string of words enter my ear. "You really are."
I smile when I jump out of my hypnosis and check back to reality. I push my toes farther into my shoes and step out of my fantasies. Trudging down the wide hallway of his New York home, I frown when I replay the memory in my head over and over, recalling our early days and how good things used to be.
Garnished with a pair of dark sunglasses, a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a red bandanna poorly fastened into his pathetic mop of brown hair, he stood patiently behind the kitchen island.
"Autumn..." He whispers shakily when he sees me. His expression is heartbreaking, and I try not to look at him when I managed to keep a apathetic expression, although my heart wasn't in it.
"Tom," I say breifly, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I just got a headache," he says. His eyes scan the counter while I walk towards him, setting my purse on the counter. "I'm a wreck," He bursts. I see a hurt expression flash over him as I put one arm around him, attempting to comfort him.
"We're all wrecks. It just depends on how well we hide it," I comment rather philosophically. I take a measure to enjoy the intake of his cologne while he he embraces me gently. The nineteen year old rests his chin on my head while the sound of the crickets outside lulled me into his chest. I rest my head against his chest, my hands on his arms, and close my eyes. There was something about this man that made me melt, that made me smile, that made me feel so good. I realize that this moment must be awkward, so I back away gracefully and brush my hair back.
"Do you still love me?"
I hear his words echoe through the house and waver my eyes between the countertop and his eyes.
Do I still love you? Absolutely. There's not a doubt in my mind. I can fall in love with you as many times as I can stand it, but all that it does is remind me that love is not enough. Not even close.
"Tom...we've been through this before," I say and bite my lip, trying not to cry. "I came here to comfort you."
"It's comforting to know that you still love me," he corners me into the kitchen counter. His hips push into mine and he grips the counter. I lean back and whisper, "Tell me what happened."
"I'm just so tired. I'm about ready to quit."
We sit quietly, in the dark on his leather couch while the nocturnal creatures of the night sing their baleful requiem. I can barely make out his profile as I tuck my legs under me and set my chin in my palm. The simple sound of his breathing felt like the blunder of wind that wailed over the roof tops all night long.
"If you're unhappy, leave. Don't stay. That's the only logical solution," I whisper. He leans back on the armrest of the couch and puts his feet up on the cushion. I can sense he's trying to be casual about the way we were situated. His stance and attitude remain emotionless. When we come down to nothing more than apathy, that's when we have the most emotions buzzing around. Not in our minds, or even expressions, but our hearts.
"It's not that simple. I can't just quit. I didn't build up my career for fifteen years to quit just because I freaked out on set," He pauses, "Why are we whispering?"
"I don't know," I whisper. "And you're the bad boy, you can do whatever you want," I joke. I feel him scooting closer when he sits upright in the dark. The infinitely questionable way he leaned forward and rested his hand in his chin surpised me. I tried to evade the fearful, yet curious thought that he was attempting to kiss me.
"Even though this is the career I've had since I was three, I don't think I've discovered my real reason, the thing I was meant to do. I'm not sure if there's a thing such a thing as destiny or what, but maybe this is what I was meant to do. I just don't feel it." His breath broke the fall of my smile when I look up to see him smiling back, in a bad boy way. My were now adjusted to the light, so I could make out a slight outline of his facial expression.
"Maybe you can cheat it."
"Cheat what?"
"Cheat destiny." I find myself in a hypnosis when he flashes his smiling eyes. Fondled with speckles of gold in his deep brown eyes, a few strands of hair hung over his eyelashes, evading the poorly tied bandanna around his forehead.
"You didn't answer my question," I say.
"What question?"
"I asked you what happened, you told me how you felt," I pause and ruffle his hair playfully, "Let me fix your hair."
I lean forward on my knees as he says, "Well I just got a little stressed because Jerry kept telling I wasn't saying the line right and Mandy kept saying I looked like shit...I just freaked out," he pauses, "a little."
"Yeah right." I run my delicate fingers through his hair, attempting to keep his wild mess of hair under control. "Knowing you, I believe it wasn't a little freak out."
"I got wasted, okay? I turned the table over and broke a door," he confesses. I enwreathe my hands around the back of his head and untie the knot. I leaned in closer, hoping the moment didn't seem too awkward. I sensed his eyes were drifting down my shirt, but I didn't care. It's not like he hasn't seen them before, and not like he'll see them again.
"I haven't used anything in three days."
His words are harsh and break the eery silence that washed over us for a moment while I re-tie the knot. No butchers blade could cut the look he gave me as I overshadowed him. He whispers into my ear, "I'm trying Autumn," like the cities' siren song that lulled me to sleep.
The scathing, almost unbearable urge to be with him and melt into him came over me. My girlish notions of romance leapt out when I recall the pleasant memories of us on the restaraunt deck and how our early days were so much better.
"You never answered my question," he whispers. "I asked you if you still loved me, you told me you weren't here for that, but it doesn't look like it to me." I feel a sudden embarrassment when I realize I'd climbed into his lap and had my legs wrapped around his waist. I try to pull back, but he keeps me from moving.
"You know, autumn is the dying season," he says, "You aren't dying are you?" I hear a shaky attitude in his voice.
"No. But my heart is." I feel tears well up in my eyes when he leans his forehead to mine.
"Hearts don't die, Autumn. They fall asleep."
His words cut into me like a hot knife. I cry silently, each tear rolling down my red cheeks slowly. I put my hand to his stubbly cheek and gasp. His salty skin taste sweet under my lips when I kiss on his forehead, then trail down his cheekbone and land on his lips.
This was not supposed to be happening.
He runs his hands down my arms as his fingertips chase each other along my spine. He kisses up and down my neck as I cry, hoping he would stop so I wouldn't regret anything in the morning. He breathes into my ear as I ruffle his hair unintentionally and reach for his belt buckle...
I've always felt that the only way I'd really matter is if I made a significant, original discovery, and I have.
He is the reason I am.
He is all my reasons.
Page 1/2 | Next
