Waving Not Drowning

"How do you fight with a girl, huh? Tell me, cause it ain't right, you being like that with her. It's different, you know. I wouldn't take it, no way, that's straight up wrong is what that is. You need to shake your head, that's what you need, bro. No way you treat a girl like that. How you think she feels, hmm? You treat your sister that way, defensive and downright mean? Yeah, you're mean, bro. You dismiss her and don't respond. You disengage. That's fine with me- I get it, you know? But to her? No. Passive aggressive and you call her out on it? Pfffft, come on. I mean, I've listened to you go on and on for the last what, 8, 9 months- but this anger, man. You have some spooky anger issues in play and honestly- I love you, man, you know I do- you need to check that because the two of you make each other crazy and she's a good woman, dude. You know that. But you shut her down and check out and then you play with her, always play. Enough with...

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...

He places a cool cloth across her forehead. She's burning up, in and out of sleep, struggling. It's breaking his heart but he's so grateful to be here. His guitar lays at the foot of the bed. Gibson Les Paul Standard Gold Top, the one gift she got right. He played to her for hours, all her favourites, singing in that voice she loves, making up words if he forgot them. She didn't notice. If she did, she didn't care. She probably only hears him in waves anyway. She comes to then slides back under, the way tides ebb and flow at the full moon's passing. She's leaving him, this time for good. No more slamming doors or hanging up the phone. No cars speeding off down a dirt road, taillights fading while he stands alone in the ditch wondering how he's going to get back home. So much anger. Rage. Passion. Intensity. Disappointment and fear defined her until she exhausted him and her body in the process. Millions of cells, billions of molecules passing in the air ...