Current mood:	okay
Current music:	"Rapunzel" --Dave Matthews Band
Entry tags:	adv. creative writing

s e c r e t s
S E C R E T S

He rises as he does every morning, refreshed and relaxed, ready for the new day, yet empty. The morning routine has become automatic and lifeless, and he often wonders what had happened to his optimism and youthful idealism over the past few years. Without blinking, he stares at his mirrored reflection for a long moment, sad eyes distant and wistful. The flicker of hope in him is slowly burning out.

Her alarm clock could pass as a fire alarm, yet it buzzes for fifteen minutes before she finally forces her fingers to find the switch to turn it off. Muscles aching in a strangely good way, she crawls [over Ralph] towards the edge of the bed, the silk sheets wrapped around her naked body. Bare feet pad against the hardwood floor as she stumbles into the bathroom.

The moment he steps out of the shower, the warmth of it seems to leave his body. Thoughtlessly toweling off his skin, his mind begins to finally focus on the day ahead of him; routine, lifeless, boring...but that is the way it will always be. He's grown used to the looming prospect of emptiness over the years, knowing that because she did not feel the same, his heart would always be beating half-tempo and filled with ‘what-ifs.’

Steam warms the bathroom where she applies lipstick to her carefully outlined lips. Pressing her them together, she smoothes it evenly, and parts them once again to examine her teeth. Her eyebrows arch perfectly over the shimmering eye shadow on her lids. The hair she always tamed in braids now hung in wild curls over her shoulders. Her reflection is rather satisfied with her fine work.

The ticking clock echoes as he mindlessly goes about morning rituals. The sound reverberates like a gunshot in an endless cave. Coffee scalds his throat when he gulps it down, the burning sensation must have left scars over time; his voice is rougher now. Yet he doesn’t feel the pain; numbness fills his body. Finished, he reaches for the sink. The cup is interrupted by a tile countertop and topples to the floor. Red, porcelain pieces stain the once-sterile floor.

She slips red heels over stockinged feet as she supports herself against the wall. No time for breakfast, she slips her wallet into one of several purses and hums to herself as she slips on an Armani jacket. Checking her teeth one last time at the mirror by the door, she glances back at the messy apartment. [Ralph will be gone and out of her life by noon.]

When the train pulls out of the underground station, he feels he is nearly left behind. Life was playing in slow motion, frame by frame, though he longed to press a fast forward key. His back presses against a screaming poster (SALE! SALE! SALE!), and he wonders if his cheeks are peeling away from his mouth as the subway zips along.

She hails a taxi cab and asks for the theatre. The cab has three dents on one side and bumps unevenly as they travel. Brightly colored people line the streets, and she pays them little attention as she moves along. Neon signs call out to her (The Cut! $10 Shampoo and Style!), but her wallet is lighter these days.

The city reminds him of wet steel. Emerging from the underground, he looks into the falling rain. His umbrella still hides on a hook next to the door. A large drop poke him like mocking school children and his reflection, bent and twisted in the puddles, scorns his size. Even full grown, he feels like a boy in a world of big, bad bullies. He was alone without her.

The city is her circus, and she is the star. Even exiting the dented yellow cab, umbrella first, she has the charismatic posture of a Hollywood movie star exiting a limousine. Raindrops bounce off of the red fabric of her umbrella. Nothing can touch her; she doesn’t need anyone to protect her.

Crumpled paper balls still carpeted the study, and though he had dialed her number many times, she had never answered. When the mechanical woman on the other line informed him that her phone number was no longer in service, he sat for hours with his forehead in the palm of his hands. Today is her birthday. He buys her a bouquet of summery daisies.

She stops by Fuel for a double shot, a special treat for the time of day. The cashier, a talker, kindly halves the price when she casually leaned towards him, her chest pressing against the marble countertop. Today is her birthday, she tells him. Would he like to join her for a little dinner after rehearsal?

Work happens. He doesn’t remember it, and doesn’t care to. A street musician bangs fluorescent sticks against an overturned bucket as he lets the crowd push him through the streets. Pink curtains on an ordinary window remind him of her childhood bedroom. How often had he stood outside, calling to her to come out and play? The yellow daises fall from his fingers into a murky puddle.

Her performance, even in practice, is heart stopping. A local news reporter had once written that her talent could warm the hearts of demons. The cashier slipped into the theater minutes before rehearsal ended, and the strap of her dress had slipped off of her shoulder. The minutes she’d known him could have been weeks when she kissed his cheek just below his ear. With a wave they swaggered down the red carpet and into the streets.

His apartment was cold, and even under layers of down blankets he found no warmth. As a child he could never sleep in socks, but now he found it was the only way to keep from freezing. When he closed his eyes, the image of her played on the backs of silver screen eyelids. Swimming in the river, half past midnight, muddy toes. He revisited the scene often. He had wanted her to stay. She had left.

She tumbles into her apartment full of laughter that fills the hallways. Her neighbors hate her, and she suspects it’s because they’re jealous. The cashier’s calloused hand prods at the base of her spine. His skin is dirty with money. As they fall into bed together, she imagines he is someone else.

He wonders if she rests in a creaky bed like his own. He remembers that, as a boy, his mother often speculated about the girl he would marry, and wonders if she is disappointed in his lifestyle. Sometimes he imagines that the ceiling is falling towards him, and wonders how long it would take for someone to notice his absence from his stagnant life.

The bed creaks under the silk sheets as she moves to the edge of the bed, away from the money-scented cashier. As a child, she had always been the ‘good girl.’ She grins wickedly to herself, wondering what they would think now. When she points her toes the muscles all along her body shudder as they stretch. Tomorrow, she will forget about the cashier. Red heads really weren’t her type.

His dreams take him back to innocent times, when they laughed over daffodils and daisies, laying under the summer stars and telling each other their secrets. His hand falls off of his frameless bed and his fingertips strike the floor with a thud. He does not wake. The ceiling above him creaks.