You Can Breathe

Their last night together is spent in the backseat.

you can breathe

You can breathe but the air is running out. Black pavement doesn't change it's color even when it's tormented with the rain, with each drop that hits the blacktop, there's a splatter and it splashes and a sort of swishing sound that melts with all the other splattery, splashy, swishy sounds until it gives off that musical torrent that fascinates us, and saddens us. A lot of people find the rain romantic. Kisses in the rain are love song fodder and they are often the start of something beautiful. Or the end.

  You waited for me in the downpour, in the parking lot behind that grungy bar where you get your drinks for free because you've been there every night until close since the day you turned twenty-one in 2002. And for the most part, I was there with you, my arm around you, my head leaning against your copper hair as we both laughed, one of us drunk, alternating by night which of us got to get completely wasted and drown our sorrows in Jack Daniel's Tennesee Whiskey. In the parking lot of that old place, you waited for me in the rain �" your hands cold to the touch and your lips nearly blue as your tank top that was soaked and stuck to your skin, your scarf and skirt clinging to you. You can breathe now. It's four in the f*****g morning, and here we are, in the rain, in the parking lot of where we met.

  “You could have phoned me sooner for a ride, it's a mess out here,” I nearly had to shout over the splash of rain, and you shouted back, “The rain's the rain!” And you threw your hands in the air and twirled on your bare feet and toes, shoes tossed aside, not needed, “Some air would be good for you, Jack!” You shout in the voice that knows that it's about to be over, but you want to have one more night before you let it go. You can breathe but the air is running out.

You can breathe now. You can breathe but the air is running out.

  And then you're kissing me. Your mouth is on mine, soft and affectionate, and you push me backwards against the cold metal of my car, colder than the rain and the wet pavement, and I find it hard to believe that I don't feel like I need to come up for air, and I kiss back, my hands finding yours and your knee presses me harder against the door of the grey sedan and then you open that same door and push me inside, climbing over me, grabbing my keys out of my soaking wet pocket and turning them in the ignition. Warm air blasts from the vents. And then we're all over each other, my hands all over you, you can't forget this. Don't forget me. For us, what is another night in the parking lot with the seats rolled back, they can't see through the windows in the rain. Your voice echos over the sound of kisses and rain, the rain's the rain, some air would be good for you, Jack! You can breathe now. You can breathe but the air is running out.

  And in your dreams, you told me, you walked. You walked slow for miles and miles, for days you walked until the nights turned to weeks and you walked slowly down the shores of California until you reached the coast of Mexico, and there you hid. You walked away from everything that was wrong with your life, from me, and you hid away where no one had to know. You can breathe but the air is running out on you.

Reviews

[compositionc]

Wow. Another very powerful story. So sweet, yet sad.
Excellent.