Kiss quick

I've got a line out the door
Who all think they can save me.
One by one they lay the world at my feet,
One by one they drive me crazy.

Inspiration strikes at odd times. One minute I'm studying for a Spanish test, the next I've written a story about a man with a terminal disease. Granted it's nearly 4 a.m., and no one else is here to edit, so it may be awful. But I'm rather fond of it, so I thought I'd share. I'd love to hear your thoughts, for better or worse!

He smells like soap, and a fire that’s just gone out, and the polished leather of office chairs. When I’m settled like this, nestled against his neck sliding down into his once muscular shoulder, I can almost smell something else. Something distinctly more harsh, more medical. Like the sharp stink of stainless steel trays and bad microwaved meals. With my face pressed tight to his angles and our haphazard hearts beating against each other, he feels like a clay doll. Fragile.

Our hearts are fighting a little duel, pulses racing out of sync. Are they fighting to get nearer, or to push us apart? I can never tell.

My fingers brush over his clay frame, his impossibly fragile self. They linger over his heart, and press, and seek the massage of the blood pumping through his chest. Seeking reassurance. I imagine the cells, round little red globs carrying bits of him all around, straining towards my fingers, seeking out a fellow life, rushing towards the shared contact before breaking away on another, more vital task. I imagine other things, too, swimming through the darkness. I push them away.

I brush my hand over my lips, trying to force my life and my love into the grooves on the tips of my fingers. Grooves that carry meaning. Furrows that tell stories. It’s a foolish thought, a night wisp, and one that sunlight would easily burn to ash, but here in the quiet darkness it takes root. I try. I bring my hand back down to his chest, pressing it flat and feeling the stories squeeze against the rush of his heart. Stories. That’s not really true. One story. One wish. Heal.

His breathing gives an erratic little jump.

I let my hand fall away and fight back a stab angry grief. Foolish. How could emotion and good intent and fiercely positive thoughts focused through overworked life-grooves accomplish what modern medicine and technology and all the comforts of a new century could not? I roll away from his angles and push myself back into my pillow. The worn cotton covering is soothing against my tired face, my hair draped haphazardly underneath me. It will be in an impossible snarl in the morning. But it’s late now, and the smooth seduction of bed sheets and the heady weight of a winter comforter is a welcome salve for my sore soul.

John hasn’t moved since we went to bed four hours ago, except to nestle a little further down into the coverings when I roll away. The primal need for warmth. The childhood search for comfort. It’s  kind of funny, picturing John as a little kid dragging around a blanket, fighting to keep it for as long as he possibly can, until it's worn into pieces too small to put back together.  

It isn’t really funny.

He looks so peaceful, lying there. If I just glance, just glance and then look away, I can almost pretend that nothing’s wrong. Almost. No matter how hard I try, though, I always catch the short little breaths that haunt his sleep, the way they rasp through his tired system on a fruitless quest to fix him, give him life, keep him here just a little bit longer. Nor can I avoid the too-bright flicker of a pulse through his too-pale skin, or the way his too-thin frame barely makes a dent in the mattress.

Three letters. Three little letters that tore our lives apart.

AML.