There is a light and it never goes out
He was very surprised when she told him that this Boy had revived himself from the dead. The boy was a young 50, a boyish face, unaged. They stood easily as a couple, so much so that it could easily inspire feelings of jealousy. They bantered well, and seemed to lean into each other, conspiring, whispering, understanding, eyes meeting, smiles and laughter.
She had described this friend of hers in the past tense. A relationship for her that she knew wasn't mentally healthy, that made her crazy, in her words. As a matter of fact, with all the references to suicide, this friend sounded, frankly, dead-or at least close enough that you wanted to stay away.
After packing up the gear, she seemed to disappear. He waited around, took one final look around the place, then guessed that she had gone home with the boy. He shrugged to himself, trying to brush off the fear he felt for her. And a slight jealousy. When he got into the car, she was sitting on the passenger side. Tired, she claimed, hand over her eyes. Even with her eyes closed, the tears ran over the dam.
"That was HIM, by the way."
"Him, who? "
"My friend who wanted to kill himself. The one who is bipolar. The one whom I love and probably always will. And who I can't bear to be involved with."
"Why not? What is it about him?"
"Die happy. Live sad"
"What?"
"He has such a beautiful smile. The sound of his laughter. God, I don't remember him laughing! He still writes to me, y'know. We lived down the hall from each other and all he did was send me emails. That was the longest we've ever spent together."
"The longest? I thought you said that you guys . . ."
"He sent me something out of the blue last week, I don't know what he's doing here. Always more questions than answers. Maybe he's doing the cross country thing."
"You knew he was coming? You didn't say anything."
"He said he was coming to the gig 2 weeks ago and never showed. I forgot. And frankly, he doesn't show up to things. He has some kind of thing, kind of an agoraphobia. I mean, he goes out. But sometimes, he can't. I don't know. He's weird. It was weirder to see him. He was talking. Like a normal guy. He's normal tonight. Or he seems that way. It's a Manic thing, he's social when he's manic. And when he's depressed, he hides in his closet for months at a time. You can see why it's unhealthy to want to love someone like that."
"And he left?"
"I guess. I walked away and then he wasn't there. I didn't look hard for him,"
"You didn't tell him where we are staying, did you?"
"Even if I did, I wouldn't expect him to show up"
"That doesn't answer my question,"
"I think there's something compelling about his absence. There always was. It's so great when he's present, and when he's gone, there's this longing."
"Always leave them wanting more,"
"Like being in love with a ghost"
He gave a her a look, wanting to warn her, wanting to make a joke of it, "I resemble that remark" or something like that. But she had already gone. Gotten out of the car, running to the figure in front of her motel room door, the one with the smile of a devilish young boy.
The Smiths
He was very surprised when she told him that this Boy had revived himself from the dead. The boy was a young 50, a boyish face, unaged. They stood easily as a couple, so much so that it could easily inspire feelings of jealousy. They bantered well, and seemed to lean into each other, conspiring, whispering, understanding, eyes meeting, smiles and laughter.
She had described this friend of hers in the past tense. A relationship for her that she knew wasn't mentally healthy, that made her crazy, in her words. As a matter of fact, with all the references to suicide, this friend sounded, frankly, dead-or at least close enough that you wanted to stay away.
After packing up the gear, she seemed to disappear. He waited around, took one final look around the place, then guessed that she had gone home with the boy. He shrugged to himself, trying to brush off the fear he felt for her. And a slight jealousy. When he got into the car, she was sitting on the passenger side. Tired, she claimed, hand over her eyes. Even with her eyes closed, the tears ran over the dam.
"That was HIM, by the way."
"Him, who? "
"My friend who wanted to kill himself. The one who is bipolar. The one whom I love and probably always will. And who I can't bear to be involved with."
"Why not? What is it about him?"
"Die happy. Live sad"
"What?"
"He has such a beautiful smile. The sound of his laughter. God, I don't remember him laughing! He still writes to me, y'know. We lived down the hall from each other and all he did was send me emails. That was the longest we've ever spent together."
"The longest? I thought you said that you guys . . ."
"He sent me something out of the blue last week, I don't know what he's doing here. Always more questions than answers. Maybe he's doing the cross country thing."
"You knew he was coming? You didn't say anything."
"He said he was coming to the gig 2 weeks ago and never showed. I forgot. And frankly, he doesn't show up to things. He has some kind of thing, kind of an agoraphobia. I mean, he goes out. But sometimes, he can't. I don't know. He's weird. It was weirder to see him. He was talking. Like a normal guy. He's normal tonight. Or he seems that way. It's a Manic thing, he's social when he's manic. And when he's depressed, he hides in his closet for months at a time. You can see why it's unhealthy to want to love someone like that."
"And he left?"
"I guess. I walked away and then he wasn't there. I didn't look hard for him,"
"You didn't tell him where we are staying, did you?"
"Even if I did, I wouldn't expect him to show up"
"That doesn't answer my question,"
"I think there's something compelling about his absence. There always was. It's so great when he's present, and when he's gone, there's this longing."
"Always leave them wanting more,"
"Like being in love with a ghost"
He gave a her a look, wanting to warn her, wanting to make a joke of it, "I resemble that remark" or something like that. But she had already gone. Gotten out of the car, running to the figure in front of her motel room door, the one with the smile of a devilish young boy.
The Smiths
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