Fixing Cracks - Prose.

They liked to spend evenings sprawled on the couch together, their bodies twined with the genius of a jigsaw puzzle. The TV was always on; a soft white noise to dampen the magic of the moment. She liked the the sound of comedies, drama, cartoons, anything-- It made her nervous to only have his saccharine eyes to focus on.

She liked the easy way they had. He came and went, mostly in the evenings, and nothing commital ever popped up. Nothing even foreshadowing the idea was ever said. But thoughts of him, all his quirky moments and all the sweet ones, spent the day canabalizing her mind.  It was a constant flow of things she ought to do, she things she ought to be, things she ought to say. A barrier always held her back; she never did tell him all the things he ought to know.

Tonight was the same. Outside the air was damp and chilled, cold hands on a bare neck. Pressed against him was like pressing her back to sensuous flame. His wire arms were wrapped around her waist in a precarious manner, as if he thought she'd break under the tiniest pressure. It wasn't true though-- she was already broken.

He kissed the nape of her neck, murmured into her ear. "You never talk much about yourself."

She giggled. "There isn't much to talk about." He snuggled in closer, spoke in rhythmic jumbles with his mouth moving in hypnotizing circles.

"I bet you've got some wonderful stories to tell." Flashes of childhood moved in sepia slow motion in her head. Moments of ugliness, ferocious fear and anger. Battered. Scars and bruises. She pulled away subconciously, boxed into the cinema of her grey matter.

He twisted her around to look at her face; an impossible feat made easy with his warehouse man strength. 

His face was square, scruffy. Framed with dark hair and held together with eyes the color of moonlit ocean. They were impossible to look at for long, so she looked at the celing instead. They were silent for a moment, and moment too long she thought. She felt bare, even the white noise of the Tv faded into tense silence.

"What's wrong?" He asked, his voice was rough silk.

"Nothing." Was her abrupt response.

"Did I say somethi--"

"No, I just... was remembering."

More silence.

"You know, all cracks can be fixed." And the way he said it, right then and there, she believed him.

- - -

Yes, it's sappy and sort of lame. But hey, I'm allowed to be a romanticizing teenage girl once in a while, right?