belle

we slip into a somewhat casual conversation as she invites me over to her den.

"i've made you soup," she shuffles out of the imaginary confines of her kitchenette with a playfully rotund plastic and pastel colored bowl in each hand, laying them down graciously with the gravitas of a diner waitress.

"what kind of soup is this?," i question, as my eyes dart back and forth from the minimalistic broth that does not fit within my definition of an actual soup.

"miso, instant," her eyes redirect to her pantry as she describes the ingenuity and engineering that was put forth into the instant miso packets that only require a "miso block" to be mated with hot water in order to become a dish that not only warms my core, but my soul and the air around us.

"thanks," i let out, a meager thanks to an imtimate and otherwise friendly offering, a display of affection under the guise of hospitality and humility.

i can't piece it together with the surgical precision of a jigsaw puzzle or of any mechanical marvel, but her simultaneous embodiment of hope and hopelessness leave me in a bind.

with her brunette strands dividing across the outer thirds of her head, with a mound puffed perfectly in the center, i fall to pieces.

thinking that i've found the solution to all my problems and regrets, only to find the source of my demise and despair.

"what do you want to drink?" she asks without making eye contact, her hands busy and body sporadically afloat in the efforts to refrain from establishing an emotional connection while retaining her hospitable mannerisms.

"nothing, i'm fine," i sincerely let out, although with my deadpan response, she brings out a glass that is three-fingers deep.

"whiskey it is," she emerges, with the same urgency and accuracy as before.

and with this comes the realization that the version of bottom that she envisions does not correlate to mine. i want to be able to share and feel miserable to the same degree as hers.

i want there to be no way out.

i can see her fidgeting, and i make that acknowledgement known with my eyebrows and eyes.

"sorry," she let's out with her eyes tracing imaginary lines on her wood-paneled floor, displaying a degree of discomfort more than the previous five minutes.

i extend my hands to intercept her trembling ones, misdirect the drink onto the counter on her side of the international dateline and just hold her hands there, our heat transferring, from the warmth to the cold--from her unto me--and it is in this moment where i can feel her intent, down to her bones.

her eyes divert to my backpack, her eyes inside.

"let's see what you've buried your head into now," she directs all of her attention to a paperback that has white post-it notes spastically poking from the pages.

"an unevenly and stupidly mixture of romance, suicide and self-realization?" i blurt out with an air of weakness with the sincerity of a confidant.

"these notes, are they yours?" she asks with an investigative acumen.

"there's a reason why i keep razorblades with every book in my collection," i say this to ellicit interest, not worry.

"are you afraid to be alone?" she asks with the innocence of a pup.

"i'm more afraid of what i've become and what i've turned you into," i let out with tears clouding my vision, as if i have transformed this upward rocket into a self-destructive downward spiral.

"i'm afraid, too." it's the 'too' that breaks my heart. it's that knowing that another soul knows exactly what i feel at the exact moment. knowing that she feels the pain that i have felt and the sins that i have committed, she reminds me of home. i want to fall into her and want to allow her to enfold me, i want to bury my sins and to be reborn in the presence of her arms.

"this is where you end, and i begin" she spills into the open air as i collapse into tears laced with an honesty that i reserve only to those who are close to my heart.

she's a belle, and she'll never know it.