Love shaped gap

Love-shaped gap.

She felt him rubbing the sole of her foot with his foot then she opened
her eyes. Then she quickly closed them again: opening more gradually to
a roomful of brightness. Lying low, on a bed (a futon maybe) she had
once tossed a coat at a party (but didn't think much of it at the
time), below a window, facing the high, almost-white painted ceiling,
she recognised it all fuzzily. Light erased the pattern on the curtains
in its continual stream groundwards. She could hear an intermittent
click and humming from somewhere far behind her, 'I hate that fridge';
the room was empty until he spoke.

Two. So neatly tucked together, she could barely tell where one body
ended and another began. She was startled by the sound of a voice
despite feeling skin next to hers; so familiar in touch but not in
speech. As the hangover-haze lifted, she shuffled, turning, unlocking
them, partially, to face him. She realised how warm she was: covers
only to waist and that he was (not uncomfortably) lying on her hair. He
had smudged eyes in the way people's eyes that need glasses seem hard
to see, as they find it hard to see. The only person whose eye-colour
she wouldn't remember later perhaps because such closeness prevented
her from seeing him properly. Or perhaps the whole room was still
smudged, drunkenly. And she thought of her mascara and that her eyes
would be smudged too, in a way. His lips felt rough to touch, as she
knew hers would: two dry mouths try to constitute a kiss.

Warm and snug body so at ease with his, she realised how strange the
situation was. Suddenly she felt the way a burglar must feel wandering
inside a stranger's house, able to imagine what it meant to live there.
So I'm a thief, she thought, and this is stolen intimacy. Breathing in
deeply she then sighed happily, half-laughing. She looked at him again,
smiling inadvertently at his vulnerable eyes, and wanted to hug him but
their closeness left over from the night before was falling apart. The
night before&;#8230;.

She remembered wine, an entire vile-tasting bottle to herself, and
being in a club but not arriving; the comical fizzle of a cigarette
burning her arm but no pain; tripping up and landing on her back with a
lack of embarrassment she made up for now, blushing and biting her lip;
a taxi? A conversation? Maybe, she thought&;#8230;oh God, what did I
say? 'They're anyone's': she distinctly remembered saying that, but
about who? Something made her horribly sure she had said it about her
closest friend - alcohol putting honesty before loyalty. She looked at
the ceiling as he began to question her, spreading her thoughts out
over its dirty paleness. His voice sounded probing, critical, worried
even. A line from a Smith's song played in her head-'she could've been
a poet or she could've been a fool'. Tiredness had crept into her bones
and now all she could think of was sleep. Much like the night before,
she didn't know what she was saying. His responses became generous,
offering to lend her things, suggesting things to do: generally
soothing her with his warm voice. He told her he had work to do but to
relax. Thank you, she thought and closed her eyes.

'I've got no room' and she felt herself moving toward the wall, her
knees jutting out from the duvet warmth then moving further away as she
straightened out; she had two vague thoughts: she must unconsciously
curl into the foetal position and to try not to when sharing a single
bed. 'Sor-ry&;#8230;' then she forgot all about it.

When she woke the room felt entirely day-time and she knew he was
awake, watching her. More alert this time, she heard a clock quietly
ticking not far from her head. Trying to swallow, her tongue clucked in
her dry tasteless mouth. 'Want some water? I think there's some from
last night.' If he had the perspicacity to deter a hangover, by getting
water to drink, she knew he certainly hadn't been as drunk as she had.
She took the cup; the water had a peculiar taste as she drank, reviving
the wilting flower of her mouth. Taking the empty cup, he turned away
to put it on the floor. She had the opportunity to look at him then
without him seeing her. And she realised at once the humour and the
sadness; being too shy to ever talk to people once she felt something
for them, having spent weeks able only to grin stupidly at him, without
knowing what she was doing- she had removed the school-girl-crush
aspect in a few (inebriated) hours; sadly it would be over in a matter
of minutes.

She couldn't help finding it funny. (A bed, a stranger and only a
flimsy idea of what went on in one and with the other, attempting the
kind of conversation we really should've had before adding a bed to the
equation. If we hadn't already discussed names, I wonder if he'd even
know mine&;#8230; 'So, are you planning on going to any concerts?'
'No' What! I mean yes, but that would sound stupid now&;#8230; 'Why
not?' '&;#8230;Nobody that I would like to see is playing' Apart
from the two I am seeing an a week&;#8230;what am I talking about?
'Don't say that. My favourite band is playing and after&;#8230;.').
She didn't say much and couldn't seem to relax. Her answers were curt,
sounding like slamming doors. With each word, they claimed back their
bodies, separating. All she wanted to do was lie with him, saying
nothing, curled up with his warmth. But she knew that it was the kind
of warmth that made the cold seem colder.

It is strange to lie in someone else's bed. She tried to imagine waking
up every morning here: seeing the big, wide, cluttered room from the
low perspective, the flimsy curtains always letting in light, the
oddity of a cooker and a fridge in a bedroom. She always found the
sound of traffic easy to get used to, after a while it became a
forgotten backdrop. Listening for it now, she thought of it as a
reminder of the humdrum continuation of all things, but she couldn't
hear it. He was getting up. He swiped aside the duvet and swung his
legs over the edge of their bed into his room. 'What a mess' he
complained to the jumble of things strewn over the floor. The things
stayed where they were, defiantly jumbled, so he began rummaging around
for his clothes. Last night in reverse, she thought as clothing left
the floor and covered his body bit by bit. 'I can't find my glasses, I
need my glasses to find my glasses.' She laughed at what must be a
daily thought for him. 'I'll have put them somewhere safe&;#8230;'
and he found them all tucked up like she was. Uncrossing their legs he
slipped them on, startling her by the difference it made to his face.
All traces of sleep were gone. He was in daytime mode now, flustered by
her nighttime attitude. She heaved her upperbody up and drew in her
knees hugging them to herself through the cool soft duvet. She sighed
at the thought of Getting Up. It's even stranger to lie naked in
somebody's bed as they stand fully dressed wishing you weren't
there.

Standing, she realised someone had filled all the spaces inside her
body with concrete. Having stretched awkwardly, clasping duvet to
chest, unearthing first knickers and then her top, she had wriggled
into them underneath the covers with minimal exposure. After a night
where their skins had been pressed together it was absurd to hide it
now she had thought and stood up to fetch her jeans. She groaned
wordlessly as her body sulked at the effort. Bending was painful (due
to the concrete) but she stepped into her jeans. She couldn't help
laughing when she tried to fasten them and found no button. He looked
over and she emphasised the inability to fasten them, he laughed a
little. 'There's a bra somewhere' she said hoping he'd laugh. 'We can
look for it now' he said hastily. She stopped smiling. Leave no traces?
I understand, she thought. Then she felt her hair and laughed a huge
childish laugh.

'What do I look like?' she asked her reflection. Considering the time
she had spent smoothing her appearance, combing hair and applying
makeup, she wished she could have seen then what she looked like now.
Her once straight and shiny hair felt and looked like doll-stuffing,
woolly and fuzzy. The illusion of flat skin was lost to a bumpy,
blotchy complexion. Her appearance was like a town after an earthquake:
all the straightlines gone. Dragging her fingers through her hair,
pulling them out half way as they couldn't get past the clumping, she
moaned. 'I want my hair back.' She said with mock upset, jutting out
her bottom lip. He laughed a genuine laugh and the room felt
comfortable again.'I haven't combed my hair for years' he said. Then
she laughed at the absurdity of the idea for her. 'It's not as bad as
it sounds.' She only laughed more at his defensiveness. 'I can get you
a brush if you want. I'll get one from my flatmate, I can hear her in
the shower, she won't mind.' As he left the room, she hoped he wasn't
too relieved to go.

'That sounds painful.' Admittedly the hairs were snapping a lot, but
she had so many she didn't care. She could've told him that she'd
always had tugs to deal with, that her hair was ridiculously fine and
shed endlessly. All her life friends had complained about finding her
long blond hairs on their clothes, in their houses. She said nothing,
thinking only that for some reason she couldn't tell him anything,
easily. They sat on the bed a little distance apart. Next to each
other, so differently. It was fine before we had to get dressed, she
thought to herself.

'The busstop is down there on the left.' She was overly conscious that
the daylight would reveal just how hideous she was looking. She looked
quickly at his eyes then at the doorstep. He hugged her vaguely into
his side then gave her a gentle push out the door into the sunshine.
Thanks. She heard the door clunk heavily shut behind her. Goodbye. No
kiss.
Queuing for the bus she felt conspicuous: quite obviously a girl in
Saturday Night Clothes on a Sunday Afternoon. Only the day before a man
in Friday Night Cloths whistling his way home on a Saturday Morning had
made her smile. She almost smiled. Then one of his flatmates joined the
queue. She looked at her feet and tried to listen to what the people
around her were saying.
* * *
As the door of her bedroom clicked into place she sighed. The sun,
through the filter of her curtains, lit the room with a blue light.
Leaving her clothes where they fell, she undressed and sank into the
coldness of her bed-for-one. She couldn't help feeling that there
should be two. She was angry at herself for thinking it, but she did.
There was too much space. She thought of him finding blond hairs on his
pillow and wondered if he would feel there was a gap too.