pairings.

Tuesday, January 08, 2008


pairings.

A boy and a girl fall in love in a windfall sort of way. Their's is an attraction that bewilders, often murky and convoluted in execution. During lovemaking they are reckless, knocking over the bedside floor lamp or sending a poorly placed glass of water to the floor.

The boy never knows for certain what the girl is thinking. He's hopeless with her over the phone, awkward with his body in person. This underlying unease frustrates and intrigues; seems somehow complimentary. Constantly at a loss as to the relationship's status he loses his appetite and nurtures intimacy by carefully buying books he sees lined up on her shelf. He always wears a pair of green all-stars she once said she liked.

The girl was raised on an all-girl catholic school education. She was taught things about love, like: you can't fall in love until you're 25 and have known the person for two years. She tells him this on her bed in her two-room double, leaned against him in a mess of pillows and late afternoon daylight. He doesn't say anything and hopes it's the right answer.

There was a place they'd go with their coffee and cigarrettes. By climbing up a clangy metal fire escape they could sit near the top southern side of a bold yellow octagonal building, on a hill. They met in the winter, so sitting up high in the wind's searching path quickly numbed their feet and hands, but they still spent many stubborn hours sharing stories and nervously bouncing their senseless sneakered feet. The boy liked how the girl's eyes reddened and watered in the cold. How her long brown curls looked coming out from her yellow wool hat - held tight to her small head then flowing out - like something being freed.

She told him a story about doubling up on a bike with her sister on some suburban California street. The chain caught her foot and the bike bucked, spilling them across the asphalt. Her sister was ok, some roadburn on her knees and hands, but the chain hadn't let go of her foot, snapping the ankle as the bike pinned her to the street. He explained the raised skin on the inside of his arm. How his mother brought him a piece of bread with peanut butter, toasted because he liked it hot. He was lying on his stomach watching cartoons and when he put his hand in the air to take the plate the toast slid off, landing face down on his arm. The oils seared his skin into a scar shaped like Florida.