Waving Not Drowning

"Pick a card, any card." Kevin flared a deck in front of her with incredible ease and grace, so studied that it appeared the fan of laminated cards was a natural extension of his hand. "Not now, Kev, ok? I'm not in the mood." Kevin stood motionless for three seconds then with an exaggerated ruffle he collapsed the accordion of cards into a perfectly stacked deck, his gestures so fluid as to be unnoticeable. Sleight of hand. It was awkward between them. Tight, rough. Never date a magician, this is permanently etched into her brain now. She used to love it, the mystery, the tricks so remarkable she squealed with shock and delight. A total turn on. Talent gets her every time. Now it's one big irritation. A constant itch he needs scratched. Look at me, look at me. Did you see that, can you believe your eyes He's worse than that actor. Almost as bad as that stand up comic she slept with, the one who screamed like a girl. If Tracy wanted needy she...

The thing is, he's right. But so is she. She frightens him now. That's new. Whatever love and intimacy that existed between them has been worn down, rubbed out from months of struggle. She's turned inward, collapsed on herself. He stands farther off, eyes to the floor. They'll sit for interminable amounts of time not speaking, avoiding all contact while sharing a bed barely built for two. From great beginnings come heartbroken endings. It started slowly, imperceptibly at first. Disagreements over petty things, arguments exploding out of thin air over inconsequential actions, a misunderstanding, a missed call, a late reply, an extended pause. She became combustible, a volcano erupting, annihilating entire landscapes with molten lava of language. He was a wall, stretched thin in every direction, undulating with her waves of emotion crashing down onto him, over him, drowning him. Now they are on opposing teams, enemies sharing camp desperate for some sort of armistice. It...

Bob and Donna don't quite know what to make of her. She's not Christian which makes them nervous and wary. That's the first thing they ask her as they gather round the oak dining table for breakfast. Ella arrived unannounced with Casey late the night before. Casey was a troubled young man when they first met him at the week-long retreat. Filled with demons, broken and in need of healing. A tragedy, really. Bob and Donna felt it was their divine responsibility, nay right, to lead him back to Jesus Christ, their holy saviour. Donna took him aside two days in and told Casey he was cursed, his whole family were cursed and destined to live out a life of great suffering and punishments unless he accepted Jesus Christ as his personal Saviour and learned to atone for his many sins, sins he wasn't even aware he had committed but which were cast upon him by the shortcomings and failings of his family; godless, adulterous, thieving heathens. That's how curses work, she explain...

Four more days til he can get back to her. The deal is never longer than two weeks. Thirteen consecutive nights alone and even that is pushing it. After 4 years of long distance commuting Tom is feeling things start to implode. They're creating problems where there aren't any for the sake of conversation. Conflict creates contentious communion. Magnetic poles attracting and repelling simultaneously. It started so well. Big dreams, incredible connection. Flurries of fleeting layovers, insane exhausting weekends, extended overnighters,  the eventual week-long live-in. From the beginning they know what they're in for. Bicoastal breakdown. Tom vows he'll never do a long distance relationship. Elaine doesn't see it coming. An unexpected hello turns into a twenty minute seduction. His eyes on her arms, her lips on his neck, their fingers intertwine, legs interlock and time stops. Clothing litters the floor, sheets are soaking wet, an entire suite is consumed by their bodi...

The humidity is rising, she feels it in her hair, on her skin. A thickness weighing her down, heavy in her lungs. Sticky air, hard to breathe. The salt on her face- her own, the ocean's- commingling, a different acridity. Stings. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Bitter harsh pointed words. Communication breakdown. The devolution of care. When cross purposes collide old ghosts rise from their graves, decaying, conjured by the inability to acquiesce. Ancient rage wreaking havoc on the living ones they've left behind. Bury your dead, bury them, leave them lie. Incinerate them, blow them up into smithereens, scatter the ashes to sea. The fetid stench of death and anger dragged behind like an anchor mooring them in separate seas. Hurricane's coming and neither has the wherewithal to change course. Seek refuge, find safety, weigh anchor, head for home. Chaos reigns, self preservation at all costs overrides one for all and all for one. The shift is so minute; if either side...