Those sharp little fangs bit down and drew blood and he knew it was a metaphor.
Fast friends, they had met on New Year’s Eve and she was in his life for 175 days. Some days he had felt so close to her that his wings melted and felt his monstrous heart plummet from the sky. On others, she was distant and radiant and a world away. But it was her writing that drew him in at first, the night he met her, that night she wore a large scarf that framed a small shell and she was extremely pretty in the quiet light, in a sublime kind of way.
Drew him in because the hints here and there that teased a voluptuous past, that he was never sure if posed an invitation to uncover and that perhaps he would never get to, because in those 175 days he had met her eight times and texted her many nights into twilight about her thesis on existence and life and being and still didn’t know if she had a song she danced to when the world wasn’t watching. Met her eight times because he was already afraid of the stories he had begun to tell himself about her, and those vapid boisterous unsentimental places where they held hands offered sanctuary, because the times he had tried to plan something more meaningful, she had always been busy with others in her life.
Drew him in because her voice and her touch were gentle like a spring breeze and her mind so fresh and eclectic, drew him in because she didn’t care that he was a monster and her kindness made him gentler, but there had been a brutality in her language, and part of him just wanted to hold her.
*
The metaphor chose her. She had heard it crying one night, and couldn’t resist those large eyes and oversized ears and the desperate, earnest way its little body tumbled towards her, and so she took it home – took it home despite her mind being preoccupied and had no room to care for it and the fact that soon she’d be leaving. That night she had to go to her ex’s place and so she left it wrapped in a blanket, starving and lonely but nevertheless sheltered and warm, to dispense affection to it upon her return.
*
On one of those eight times they ended up in a hotel. A spa day with just the two of them. She slid into the pool but left her shirt on, though he could still see the outlines of her breasts as his eyes traced down to where her thighs disappeared into her swimsuit. He planked himself by the edge of the pool to whisper to her, nuzzling her wet hair and his lips brushing her earlobes and his fingers traced the outline of her shoulders and felt his chest pulsating and the world melting away. He wanted to fuck her then, in the way you’re supposed to, to devour every inch of her body, doing anything and everything to keep her pleased. But she pulled away.
*
In the morning he took the day off work and went over to her temporary place to take care of the metaphor. Went there but there had been a wretch in his heart because she had slept with someone on a whim the day before because she was lonely and hurting and distracted. But it was none of his business. They took the metaphor to the vet, got it food, ointment for an infected ear. He ordered litter, toys, and a few gadgets to be delivered to her Ex’s place, where she’d spend the week to sleep and look after their dog. They spent the day in silence, she huddled on the couch far away, muted and despondent and deep in conversation on her phone, consoled by another man some 3,000 miles away. Torrents of emotions engulfed his mind that day but he kept silent. The metaphor perched soothingly over where his heart used to be, a quiet little cuddle bug.
*
He had regressed to a schoolchild. The closest they got to was a kiss on the cheek on his birthday. As a gift. He wanted to ask for more but didn’t want to burden her. So, for now, he’d just enjoy her company, and the endless conversations they had and the unique way she was able to draw out a hidden, sensitive side of him. She had become special. He liked holding her hand. His hands were only slightly bigger than hers and he liked the sensation of their palms pressed against each other’s, and every time their thumbs flicked past each other he would feel a knot in his gut.
*
He found the metaphor a home, in a day’s time, in this city of a million stray metaphors. It wasn’t hard. This metaphor was special. It timidly cuddled and purred into any warm hand, and nibbled you gently. You only realize what hardship it must have endured from the way it ferociously, desperately defended even the smallest morsel of food and that it was a size too small, and when you cupped it in your hand, you could feel its ribs scantily covered under skin and fur. It nevertheless was a demure, playful, gentle thing. It strayed into the wrong home, but he’d found the right one, a man who lived on the outskirts of town who wanted to adopt a companion. They met unceremonious at the gate of her compound and the metaphor of passed over to him. And was never asked about again. He’d check-in on the metaphor from time to time. It was happy.
*
They had a fight the day before the metaphor moved on. Only it wasn’t a fight. A fight requires two participants, and two participants caring. This was one side nonchalantly tossing out the same cool words and dispensing a sentence. This was a realization that was at once muffling and thundering, that all the times she had said things and done things, it was never to hurt him. It was never about him. This was a story about her, the men in her life, her own heartbreak, and recovery. She wasn’t selfish. It just wasn’t about him at all.
He was at best a cameo, an irrelevant extra who thought himself the co-star. He had become a parody too absurd to be believed.
#00117F 