He has been back from Iraq for a week. He’s sitting in the bed smoking. His legs are crossed and his shirt is off. His eyes are closed.
“You’re there again,” she says.
He opens one eye and looks at her. She is standing by the window in a thin white nightgown. He can see the outline of her body through it.
“I’m here now,” he says.
“Is it bad there, does it hurt to be there?” She walks to the bedside table to pick up the pack of cigarettes. She moves like a dancer.
“Maybe it’s sad,” he says.
“What do you remember the most?”
“It’s more of a feeling,” he says.
“But what do you picture in your head, what do you see when you close your eyes like that?” she sits on the bed next to him. Her legs hang off and do not touch the floor. She points her toes down and moves her ankles in circles as they talk. She is holding an unlit cigarette.
“You know how you feel right when a good soprano starts to sing Ave Maria?” He stands up and reaches into his jean pockets. “The feeling right at the beginning, after the first line, but before anything else, right in that first pause.” He hands her the lighter.
“So you don’t see anything?”
“Of course I see things,” He says.
“What do you see?” She lights the cigarette and inhales. He watches the smoke come out of her mouth before he answers.
“But I never hear anything.” He bends over and leans the pillows up against the bed board so he can sit against them.
“What do you see?” she says.
“All the moments you remember are in silence,” he says. “Like when you take a shot in a basketball game and time slows down. You can see it all, the crowd, the ball, the hoop. You can never hear a god damn thing.”
“I don’t play basketball.” She says.
They both laugh.
“Like when you dance.” He says
“I don’t see a thing when I dance,” she says. “I only hear music.”
“And does it feel good?” He reaches over to the table and puts out the cigarette.”
“The best,” she says.
“Then where I go is the exact opposite of when you dance.”
“But the Ave Maria is beautiful.” She says.
“I’m talking about the feeling, he says.” When the hair is up on the back of your neck, right after that first pause. You don’t feel beautiful.”
“What do you feel?” She hands him her cigarette to put out.
“You feel too awake. All the time there you have that too awake feeling, and you can never hear anything.”
“Let’s go to bed,” she says.
“I would like that,” he says.
“You’re there again,” she says.
He opens one eye and looks at her. She is standing by the window in a thin white nightgown. He can see the outline of her body through it.
“I’m here now,” he says.
“Is it bad there, does it hurt to be there?” She walks to the bedside table to pick up the pack of cigarettes. She moves like a dancer.
“Maybe it’s sad,” he says.
“What do you remember the most?”
“It’s more of a feeling,” he says.
“But what do you picture in your head, what do you see when you close your eyes like that?” she sits on the bed next to him. Her legs hang off and do not touch the floor. She points her toes down and moves her ankles in circles as they talk. She is holding an unlit cigarette.
“You know how you feel right when a good soprano starts to sing Ave Maria?” He stands up and reaches into his jean pockets. “The feeling right at the beginning, after the first line, but before anything else, right in that first pause.” He hands her the lighter.
“So you don’t see anything?”
“Of course I see things,” He says.
“What do you see?” She lights the cigarette and inhales. He watches the smoke come out of her mouth before he answers.
“But I never hear anything.” He bends over and leans the pillows up against the bed board so he can sit against them.
“What do you see?” she says.
“All the moments you remember are in silence,” he says. “Like when you take a shot in a basketball game and time slows down. You can see it all, the crowd, the ball, the hoop. You can never hear a god damn thing.”
“I don’t play basketball.” She says.
They both laugh.
“Like when you dance.” He says
“I don’t see a thing when I dance,” she says. “I only hear music.”
“And does it feel good?” He reaches over to the table and puts out the cigarette.”
“The best,” she says.
“Then where I go is the exact opposite of when you dance.”
“But the Ave Maria is beautiful.” She says.
“I’m talking about the feeling, he says.” When the hair is up on the back of your neck, right after that first pause. You don’t feel beautiful.”
“What do you feel?” She hands him her cigarette to put out.
“You feel too awake. All the time there you have that too awake feeling, and you can never hear anything.”
“Let’s go to bed,” she says.
“I would like that,” he says.
Wow, phenomenal Ben. I love it when you nail one specific feeling, impossible to describe, and yet you do as with the Ave Maria moment. I'm a little bit jealous of you (but in a good way).
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