She looked up from her shoes, and her face seemed to darken, redden, and it seemed as if she was overpowered simultaneously by guilt, anger, and frustration. Guilt at revealing her feelings, and hence, lack of feelings. Anger at me for being so melodramatically stupid at not realising how she didn't feel. And frustration about the latter two feelings.
I didn't consider myself stupid. I'd known she didn't want me. But I didn't stop and think about it... what would be the point of that? Knowing she was close to me, closer than anyone I'd ever known, that was enough for me to get through the days. The fact that she made me happy enough to live a happy life, certainly that must be enough for me... but obviously she didn't feel entirely comfortable with it at all.
Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. Her nose, tiny, pert, adorable, flared with every breath, as if she was building up the strength to unleash a stream of fire in the manner of some medieval dragon. Her lips, redder than any I'd ever seen, were pursed, and their colour was almost drained entirely. She never needed to wear lipstick, because her lips were the colour of blood, natural, demonic, irresistable. But looking at her face, her cheeks were what really made me pay attention to her. The high cheekbones seemed to quiver, like she had some force inside her that she was trying to stop from unleashing itself. And perhaps she was. Looking at her, she seemed almost feline... curious, pawing, cunning, stealthy, agile.
And her hair was down. She told me she only ever wore her hair down before she went to bed. But like most people, she didn't know the whole truth about herself, and why she did things. She wore her hair down before she went to bed because losing yourself to sleep, to dreams, is the ultimate freedom in the world, and you cannot restrict yourself, hence your hair, for times like that. She wore her hair down when she was releasing herself, being free, driving in a convertable along the highway, getting out of town. But I guess, now, she was releasing herself of something, freeing herself in her own cunning manner. I wonder, did she wear her hair down because of that, or because I told her that I liked it the best when it was down? A sort of final teasing action...
My sentence, "You don't want me, then?" hung in the air like a pungent odour. She was still trying to figure out how to act. She knew I was direct with everything, but still it shocked her.
And in that moment, I realised that I didn't live for her. I lived for how she made me feel. And all I could do was seek that again. And maybe, one day, I could get that feeling from someone who sought that feeling from me too.
I reached up, stroked the rim of my glasses, nearly took them off, but no, never let down your defences. I smiled at her in my trademark, manufactured, sarcastic smile, and said, "I never meant to be a burden. Look... I'm sorry for it all, okay? I better leave you to it."
And I stood there for a moment longer, and she looked at me as if I was waiting for her to say something. And just as she was about to open her mouth, I turned around and walked towards the door. Of course, we would never be that close again. We probably would never be close to being that close again, if we even talked. But I guess that's why people lose everything. Attachment always leaves to detachment. It's the nature of society.
And I walked out, and the automatic door slid shut behind me, and I thought, "I'm free. I cannot remember how it feels to be free, and right now, I'm free again." And I walked to a tree, and sat in one of its lower branches, and cried until the sun went down.