The sound echoes in the alley and it doesn't sound right. Not now. It isn't dark, it isn't even dusk and the sun's there framed by the interspace between the buildings and it is just shining, Christ. The van with the liftgate down, open, an amp and a few straggling audio lines looped around the amp and snaking down to the filthy asphalt.
The others, inside. ('Just, get us set up. Okay?' He'd said, quietly, when she lingered, asked what she could do. Before she could insist. 'I'll handle this.'
'We're still playing?'
'Fuck if I know Dee, but do you really think she needs an audience right now?')
---
He sighed. Scrubbed his face with his hands. Some part of him wanted to give her actual privacy but there she went again. Bent over, hands on her thighs, sharp spine all articulated, curtain of blond curls swinging with each heave of her shoulders.
'You're not allowed to throw up when you're not actually eating.'
She makes this noise, maybe a strangled laugh, maybe a dismissive snort, maybe she's just clearing her throat.
He's leaning back, shoulders against the brick, forefingers in the front pockets of his skinny jeans, the sole of one of his leather sandals propped against the wall. Doesn't know if it is okay to touch her, right now.
Can't think of the last time he wondered that.
December, maybe. That interspace between Christmas and New Year's, when she came home from her sojourn in London. She said nothing about anything or rather: everything about everything sometimes, but only the small things. She seemed: okay.
So very: okay.
He didn't know what on earth to fucking do.
--
'Can I hold your hair?'
She shakes her head: no. He can't. She doesn't want to be touched, she -
So he doesn't. Just stands there, pats down his body, all the pockets - in the short-sleeved plaid button down, in the skinny jeans, looking for cigarettes. He doesn't smoke and she doesn't, much, but he knows she'll need one after this. Something sharp and spiced to burn away the bile.
'We'll get you something solid to eat later.' He taps one out, lights it. Makes it ready for her. 'Pete's Kitchen maybe. After practice.' There are times when he puts his foot down. This is one.
She usually listens.
Maybe she will tonight.
--
When she straightens he hands her the cigarette. The second one, lit from the dying body of the first. She is: better now. In a better place, shaking like a newborn calf in a way that makes him hurt, but also better.
Less filthy.
Farther away.
--
Her hands shake like a junkie's when she takes a drag. Inhales the sugared smoke all the way, wipes her foul mouth on the back of her hand and he just stands there. He wants to hold her but she won't be touched, and he remembers the first time she woke up, after London. He was just doing a favor for a friend, sitting in on the sick room. Or, no. It was more than that, but it wasn't the girl he was sitting shiva for, but someone else.
Gone then.
Gone now.
Happens to us all, just usually not so - fuck. No reason that he's thinking of that now except he has time to think, in the interspace and something about the heave of her shoulders reminds him of the hitch-hitch-hitch that accompanied the first fully conscious breath, like someone surfacing from the deep and she looked so - not small, small isn't the right word. Tenuous. She looked looked so tenuous and she asked him where the fuck she was with this burr in her voice that was his first hint of her rising panic and his very first thought was Jesus Christ, I have to get out of here. That panick and her resonance, the first brush of it: visceral can still make his teeth ache. He had no idea how much real power she had. What she was capable of. Then she started breathing in like there wasn't enough air in all the world to fill her lungs, again and again and again. What the fuck do you say? It's not love at first sight, and it's just another person - hurting, hurting.
'What the fuck's my name?'
The others, inside. ('Just, get us set up. Okay?' He'd said, quietly, when she lingered, asked what she could do. Before she could insist. 'I'll handle this.'
'We're still playing?'
'Fuck if I know Dee, but do you really think she needs an audience right now?')
---
He sighed. Scrubbed his face with his hands. Some part of him wanted to give her actual privacy but there she went again. Bent over, hands on her thighs, sharp spine all articulated, curtain of blond curls swinging with each heave of her shoulders.
'You're not allowed to throw up when you're not actually eating.'
She makes this noise, maybe a strangled laugh, maybe a dismissive snort, maybe she's just clearing her throat.
He's leaning back, shoulders against the brick, forefingers in the front pockets of his skinny jeans, the sole of one of his leather sandals propped against the wall. Doesn't know if it is okay to touch her, right now.
Can't think of the last time he wondered that.
December, maybe. That interspace between Christmas and New Year's, when she came home from her sojourn in London. She said nothing about anything or rather: everything about everything sometimes, but only the small things. She seemed: okay.
So very: okay.
He didn't know what on earth to fucking do.
--
'Can I hold your hair?'
She shakes her head: no. He can't. She doesn't want to be touched, she -
So he doesn't. Just stands there, pats down his body, all the pockets - in the short-sleeved plaid button down, in the skinny jeans, looking for cigarettes. He doesn't smoke and she doesn't, much, but he knows she'll need one after this. Something sharp and spiced to burn away the bile.
'We'll get you something solid to eat later.' He taps one out, lights it. Makes it ready for her. 'Pete's Kitchen maybe. After practice.' There are times when he puts his foot down. This is one.
She usually listens.
Maybe she will tonight.
--
When she straightens he hands her the cigarette. The second one, lit from the dying body of the first. She is: better now. In a better place, shaking like a newborn calf in a way that makes him hurt, but also better.
Less filthy.
Farther away.
--
Her hands shake like a junkie's when she takes a drag. Inhales the sugared smoke all the way, wipes her foul mouth on the back of her hand and he just stands there. He wants to hold her but she won't be touched, and he remembers the first time she woke up, after London. He was just doing a favor for a friend, sitting in on the sick room. Or, no. It was more than that, but it wasn't the girl he was sitting shiva for, but someone else.
Gone then.
Gone now.
Happens to us all, just usually not so - fuck. No reason that he's thinking of that now except he has time to think, in the interspace and something about the heave of her shoulders reminds him of the hitch-hitch-hitch that accompanied the first fully conscious breath, like someone surfacing from the deep and she looked so - not small, small isn't the right word. Tenuous. She looked looked so tenuous and she asked him where the fuck she was with this burr in her voice that was his first hint of her rising panic and his very first thought was Jesus Christ, I have to get out of here. That panick and her resonance, the first brush of it: visceral can still make his teeth ache. He had no idea how much real power she had. What she was capable of. Then she started breathing in like there wasn't enough air in all the world to fill her lungs, again and again and again. What the fuck do you say? It's not love at first sight, and it's just another person - hurting, hurting.
'What the fuck's my name?'
But my heart is wild and my bones are steel
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula