Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Predictions on the Death of a Modern Relationship

It began with bubblegum pop in winter; both barricading themselves in the stagnant basement with their parents' discarded '45's. They started out just listening, scratching their brains for some kind of logical starting point between the fuzz. It was then, on their fourth consecutive day off, following the February blizzard during the fade out of "Rag Doll" that sparks officially flew towards the frost-bitten windows.
Neither one thought to flip the dusty black sphere over, nor close the warped and spinning suitcase hinge to silence the static. They simply and unapologetically rounded inappropriate corners until the abrupt rumble from the garage door was soon falsely eclipsed by the soft chime from the oven timer. Dinner was ready, overcooked and wouldn't ever taste the same.
They all soon knew and would talk with mouthfuls of medication in spring; mumbling strategically fractured words of advice that neither party would take to heart until the swift kick of unexpected appointments in the summer. It was the Friday before the holiday; both lying to visiting aunts and cousins as they let the radio soothe their wounds on the ride to and back from the clinic. The waiting room was hushed by scrolling headlines on the bottled television set, before amongst the sounds of waterfalls and crickets, a smokey voice reassured the patient that they would both be okay. Picnic table introductions were then tainted with the remains of a lingering presence; all subsequent tastes, noises and spectacles filtered through a dented lens.
She was then quick with the digital switch; tuning out with white dung beetles lodged in each newly-pierced ear. He soon followed suit, fraying the red and blue wires and hesitantly plugging himself into her highly diminished frequency. She then rewarded his effort (following another seasonal transition) with a soft and lucid mattress; strenuously carried up to the attic by her alcoholic father on his day off. She would then bitterly ask for his assistance with the proper paperwork; his expression contented by the act of watching her try on her mother's forgotten wardrobe.
Meanwhile the other side developed a taste for complete disconnection; ordering glossy and forgotten imports, hoping she would return to the center chest bone and re-pump the maroon wine through both their homemade reservoirs. Results were mixed along with flared tempers and round actions at the racetrack. All bets for a future spin were placed; odds invariably stacked in favor of the common trend.
She faltered first in the church, confessing her past and future sins before seductively letting her legs do the talking across the street. They all knew her, were well-informed of her history, and of the faded and slanderous ink on the restroom walls. They felt the external struggle of their home appliances and the stretched durability of black plastic bags filled to the brim with indulgences the following morning.
They knew him, by his actions, words repeated in dense and abrasive settings, sporadic and yet still meaningful when dwelt upon further once their headaches settled. They wanted to be like him, to have something so shallowly pure that it kept them going through their daily dosage of pinpoint daydreaming and faulty load times.
So it was with a fashionable amount of certainty that they double-clicked the invitation, letting the sour satellites beam everyone into submission. There were then stolen substances splattered against the wild and containable, before the scene played itself out as all had predicted and foreseen.
A look. A babbled explanation and the cold ride home; both humming along out separate open windows. "I love you just the way you are..." It was officially winter again.

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