23 Life Is a Circle #3
“I want to ask you something,” Will says after a few seconds. “You said my aura was purple. I’ve been reading up on that since then.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. And it turns out there are a bunch of different ways to interpret it.”
“Tell me a couple, then.”
Will shifts, trying to get more comfortable. “Like in Chinese art, purple represents harmony in the universe, because it’s a combination of red and blue, yin and yang.”
“And?”
He smirks. “In Thailand and Brazil, it’s a symbol of mourning.”
“Well, then.”
“And in other countries, it symbolizes wealth and luxury, or sexuality, mystery, the unknown…” He laughs. “And there are places where it’s associated with sorrow.”
“How versatile.”
When he sees I’m not going to say anything else, Will sighs, stretches his arm out, and turns off the lamp. The rain is relentless, melodic as it strikes the window. I can see Will’s face in the shadows thanks to the light from the streetlamp outside.
“What does it symbolize to you, though, Greta?”
“Sensitivity, melancholy,” I manage to whisper. I had thought the conversation was over. His stubborn nose, his mussed hair emerge from the shadows. “Pride, a little anyway. And magic.”
We stop talking. My throat seems to constrict and my heart beats fast. This moment means something, I can tell, and yet nothing’s happening, neither of us is moving a centimeter.
The bed seems narrow, it’s hot, and I’m suddenly aware of everything: the delightful scent of soap on Will’s skin, his body’s weight on the mattress, his eyes like hot coals staring straight into mine.
Quietly, he says, “What if I said forget the colors and just tell me what you see in front of you? Without thinking, just tell me what your instincts say?”
There’s vulnerability in his voice, as if a violin string were about to pop. If he’s afraid of me judging him, he must have his reasons, even if I don’t know what they are.
“Memory runs both ways, right?”
“What does that mean?” Will asks.
“The past rescues us, but it also shows us what will happen in the future, that’s the most basic function of memories. If you burned yourself on a hot stove, you can predict what will happen if you get too close to one again.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“You’re a hot stove, Will.”
“Got it,” he says.
“I should keep my distance.”
“I agree.”
“But you can already guess that I won’t because there’s a bond between us. We both know it, even if you don’t want to do anything about it.”
His voice turns grave. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. The possibilities are endless.”
“Greta…”
How many inches lie between my lips and his?
Three? Four, maybe? No more than five. I can see his angular face in the darkness and feel the heat rising off his body.
I can imagine what his mouth must taste like, all I’d have to do is stretch forward a bit and let the desire crackling between us burst into flames.
But Will seems determined to keep it from spreading.
“Don’t come closer,” he begs.
“Why?” This question sums up my entire life.
I think for a second he’s about to change his mind, ignore his own advice. The air between us condenses, the rain pounds harder on the roof, and I feel a weight pressing down on my eyelids. I want to close my eyes and let myself go.
But his deep voice responds. “Remember the hot stove.”
Those words push me away from him. I grab the blanket, pull it up to my neck, and turn around. End of story. I sink my face into the pillow and try to forget all the fantasies zigzagging through my head reminding me that I wouldn’t know how to walk in a straight line if I tried.
Minutes pass. I quiver as I feel Will’s fingers sliding down my arm like a sled.
It’s a light touch, I almost wonder if it’s real, and it just lasts a few seconds, and there’s a layer between us, the fabric of his sweatshirt, but the gesture is so delicate that it sinks all the way in, deeper than my skin.
“It’s for your own good,” he whispers.
“I hate people deciding for me.”
Will sighs and adds, “It’s for my own good too.”
The sound of rain encases us, and time seems to stop, and I ask myself if it’s really possible that everything is in movement except for us, trapped here in this bedroom.
I can’t sleep, and I know he can’t, either.
I turn my back and I can hear him moving and he’s breathing as heavily as before.
It’s torture. So close. So far away. There’s no wall here full of pretty little things that cover up the holes in my soul.
Just a suppressed caress and Will and me.
It must be late when I finally say, “Remember this morning when you asked me where I’d like to go and I said I didn’t want to know about things that were far away?”
“Yeah.” His voice sounds scratchy.
“I was lying. I’ve imagined myself so many times in Vienna, at the Belvedere Gallery, standing in front of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss, as if the moment frozen in that painting had been created for me and just for me, even if it was a hundred years ago.
Call it what you want: delusions of grandeur or just a dumb fantasy. ”
I don’t know, sometimes words are like a stone we just keep pushing along. Once I’d said those, I could leave them be, and I fell asleep instantly.