Binding

She is
(somewhat) sober now, but sleepy, and so everything is funny. She laughs without control,
                                                                          abandoning herself to
                                                                                                       the leisure of not caring.
                                                                                                               She belches loudly, and this erupts
a new peal, waves of chortling
                                 carrying across the small, dank bar,
                                                                        disgusting some, infecting others,
who giggle along.
                                                                                   The man she is with belongs to this first group.
                                                                                     He is not amused,
                                                                                                 and his stern
gaze
catches hers and she
                 quickly
                 quiets.
His eyes growl
                       the way her father's used to when
                                                   she'd come home
late,
words not necessary to convey the message:  deep, deep disappointment.
She shifts
         on the stool, attempts to make light, a slight joke but
falls
flat
and he responds with a terse command that it is
   Time
   To
   Go.
She shrugs,
as though she gives no credence to his threat to leave without her,
and though past evidence suggests he
                 won't,
she wonders,
                 worries,
just enough.
               He
is worn out,
the
dark circles beneath his eyes, telling.
          Is this love or some strange duty he feels obliged to?  She's not quite sure;
            fears, almost,
                              to know,
though the
lurking uncertainty a consumption almost
                     as complete as drink.  She misses his
                                                       smile, withers inside a little each time she reaches for him and he stiffens, returns her touch with tepid put-on affection.
   Their old way of
playful banter
                   replaced with either
laconism or lectures.  She
     no longer bothers to counter
                          his well made points, slants secretly,
                                 even,
toward his side.
                                                      He treats her
like a child
because she acts like a child.
They
      agree on this.
                       She hands him the keys, chastened and contrite.
Fellow drunkards flash
                                                    looks of pity as
                                                                          she stumbles
                                                                                        behind him on the way out. Still a
gentleman,
he opens the passenger side door and helps her in, his eyes though, cast down, as if
                                        the very sight of her is painful.  She
                                           expects this and accordingly,
                                                                 demurely turns away herself, drops her
                                                                                                   hands into her lap.   Now baneful tears burn,
and she
                          squeezes them back
before he climbs into his side of the car.  She can't stand the way,
                                                                                           when she cries,
his resolve slips into helplessness, fueling her own.  She will not
                      use these tears
                             to trump.
                             The car seems to crawl up the long road home and
                                          she stares
out
    the window at the woods she knows well.
Even in the dark, the leaves on each tree seem to individualize,
wave,
as they creep on and on.
              Born in tree country, in all this green, she tries to think back, to when it all turned grey.
She curates memories
                             in the museum of her mind,
categorizes chronologically events that may have led to current state;
  any proof that she is justified in her slow demise.
                          She finds nothing.
                          He has
refused to speak,
but she curves toward him now, watches
            the methodical rise of his chest as he breathes.
             He pretends not to feel her eyes, fixates instead on the road that's winding.
The entire
world rests heavy on his back.  He is exhausted.
In an unexpected move, he
                 extends his
                             hand.
Stifling a gasp at this
prodigious marvel,
              she gently centers her own
      in his.
Her
          heart thunders
and against her will, she begins to sob,
               so gratefully relieved by this rescue from the hell of her mind.
               She is too immersed in this emotion to notice his reaction,
though
               he is strangely
calm,
less mortified by her feminine bent eruption than he might normally be, despite even,
the continuation of the cantering tears; the effect made of streaks of inky, wavy, stripes
down her cheeks.
By the time
      they are home,
she looks worse than usual.  He carries her, though she is still entirely conscious,
places her tenderly on their double bed.  He
  edges in next
                    to
her slender, frail frame.
They are both still fully dressed.
                      She is both his illness and his cure, and
likewise,
as she
relaxes in his arms,
        she recognizes and gives into
the soothing, medicating effect, of his closeness.
They know this is
               wrong.
This need, this cycle, this
     self-defeating dance they do.
                             Neither is
                                          strong enough to stop.
Maybe if they could, they would,
but they are dependent as though for air,
and
jailed by their
                  respective roles,
duet of denial, a relationship
                         reminicscent of lyrics by an 80s hair band.
She is distressingly
still beautiful to him, beguiling.
He is gracious host to
                  her parasitic nature,
                                  capsized in
                  her raging sea of insanity, soaked thoroughly through in her sorrow.
                                                    They lie here, just on the brink of dawn with these
                                                                            separate realizations.
Morning
will soon arrive with invitation.
The sun will pine across
beryl sky
for their acceptance of her light.
     Their breathing slows in unison and they shut their eyes against prophesying
                                                                 moon glow.
This is
just
    their way.
       Early, before they know they've
       even slept, a goose signals to her flock that
                                                 it is
                                                  time for flight.
                                                                     He rises first, of course, brings her
                                                                                                coffee.
She tells him
she is sorry,
sips the hot forgiveness,
savoring these
symbolic beginning mendings they continually repeat.
                                                 He meant today to
be the day of endings
but rays flicker in, cast shadows on her sadness
and he sits beside her,
                  biding,
                  binding.

The Sunday Whirl
Three Word Wednesday