We knew what this was

 "Look..." I hesitated. You know when someone says, "Look," or "Listen," that you aren't going to like the next thing that they're going to say. I watched it land on his face. 

"We knew what this really was when we started. We said it plainly then- but we forgot how to keep saying it over time. It got.. complicated." I looked at his face, keeping my features soft and stoking the vulnerable feeling inside of me. Now was not the time to protect myself. We needed a frank conversation if we were going to move forward.

"I have known all this time that you don't want me. I know that we're in this because of circumstances we couldn't find another way around. I haven't forgotten. I guess I just let my guard down at some point and let myself think it would be more than just.. an arrangement. That's my own fault." I looked down at my hands. I did not want to cry. I wanted to feel distant and objective, I wanted to not reveal that I had broken my own heart and had to basically break up with an idea of our relationship, because that felt childish. I didn't want to admit that I thought there was a little tiny fairy tale in there for us somewhere. 

"I.. do want you. Just, not in the way I want her. I can't explain it, but.. I know that you want things from me that I just can't give you, and I feel like it's just never going to be enough. You say that you are satisfied with what I have to give, but it has never actually felt that it was true."

Fair. He was right. I'm not satisfied. Everyone around me says I'll never be satisfied - and maybe this is a part of that. Some idea I have about what my life is supposed to look like and the constant pursuit of that vision, vs. acceptance of what it actually is.

Foggy tufts appeared, wisping out of her clothes. Small breaths, as if she'd been using an e-cig and hidden pockets of vapor snuck their way out later. She took off her sweater, and then her shirt. She took off her bra, and found gauzy orifices all over herself. As she moved, the fog puffed out of the holes, like small mouths blowing smoky Os.

Chunks of herself were releasing from her body, gassing out, moving on, letting go. It didn't hurt, and she stared at herself in a mirror. She took off her shoes, and pants. Small holes were on her feet, larger ones on her calves, the largest ones on her hips and buttocks. Naked, she moved her body this way and that in the mirror. She felt like a ghost, slowly disappearing.

Puff.

Puff.

The floor was hard. Her pelvic bones pressed against the hard wood, her ribs expanding against it as her breath moved in. Then out.

She felt her fingertips tingle as the oxygen moved through her. She moved nothing, except for what it took to pull the air in, then push it away. Her heels felt the cold of the wood, while it warmed under her calves and thighs.

With her hand laying across her chest, the curve of her breasts lifted and fell. Her mind was empty. There was only the white swirl of smoke above her, she pulled it in, and the pink and grey that she blew out. Silence, the deadened winter sound of snow.

Behind her closed lids, silky lashes, she saw a crack appear through the earth. A fault line had appeared, and her body shuddered, it felt so close. There was no 'real' or 'imagined'; visions were symbols for realities, and they were one. Her fingers drifted slowly across a crease in her skin. The small mole that had lived above her left breast was now gone, and a small rift lived there.

The smoky forecast of her breath unchanged, she pressed gently against the edge of the crease. Her fingertips eased inside, and where might once have lived blood, muscle and bone, she found only dust. Tiny plumes leapt up as the edge of the crease crumbled beneath her touch, mixing with the pink and white clouds above her. Breathe in, breathe out. Inhalation brought white smoke and the dust of herself. She didn't cough.

hands

I couldn't look him in the eye for another second. The bustle of the restaurant sort of melted into nothing as the intensity of his gaze burned right through me. I looked around quickly, sighed, and then stared at the way he held my hand across the table top.

"I don't even know what to say right now." An exasperated sigh exploded from between his lips as he sat back in his chair, put his head back and closed his eyes. It was the death of something and I'd known it was dying but he did not. The shock was starting to land. His grip felt loose. There was once an almost visible arc of electricity between us when we touched, but now all I felt was skin.

I watched as in slow motion, I pulled my hand from his grasp, and slid it toward me. It felt like shame when I put it in my lap, under the table. Like my hand wasn't worthy of being in public, being so shamefully attached to the person who hurt him like this.

His eyes flew open as my hand slipped from his. He watched it too, his breath growing shallow. It was like watching a chasm grow between us, before our very eyes.