He Did and He Didn’t

Short Fiction

by

J.A. Tyler

hen he touched his index finger to his thumb he felt her there. He felt her hugging shoulders and her thin frame. When he closed his eyes she danced in the blink. When he sighed she sang. When he broke she smiled.

Days from seeing her quieted his head. Made the guttural noises groan less and moan less and be loud less and less and less. But she was still there. Fragmentary and alive.

He was showering and thinking of her. He was eating and thinking of her. He was sleeping and thinking of her. He was living and thinking of her.

And he wished it was lust and simple but it was love and complex. Complicated. Tight and long and weary.

He wished it was as general as the world seemed to be with its small talk and its feedback but it wasn’t. It was red and canvas and flecks of gold that were new to him. She was painted and painting and he couldn’t get her out.

Beyond him was a family made from sticks and stones and positioned in his living room like a real family talking and cooking dinners and wishing on shooting stars late at night from a backyard olive scented and lush. In his mind he had a wife who was nothing to him. A wife that he wished would hang herself from the rafters of the basement or slit her wrists and paint the bathtub in blood red. A wife that he imagined drowning herself in pills but still living. Taking the life out of herself but still living. Arranging herself in droplets and doses but not enough to kill. Only to stifle her legs and white wash her brain and leave her flipping channels in her head. His wife was a limp rag doll. His wife was banging unshaved legs on his dry calves and spilling her guts in whispers at night that begged and bet and busted his lips again again again.

And in his head he had a beautiful daughter. She was confectioner’s sugar. She was frosting and cake. She was blonde and burbling. She was tiny and perfectly shaped. And she ran and she played and she giggled and she leapt. And in his head he caught her mid leap and laid her back down mid leap and on like that. Like he was clouds and sky. Like he was right. Like he was good. Like he was on to something.

He wished those things on himself. And he fractured himself and parceled himself out to the wife and the child. To the invisible family. Like a mother in a man’s suit. Like a reflection of morals and ethics. But then her black sweater was in his head again. And her palms were dripping playful blue paint. And her smile was chaotic and listing. And he was lost in her again.

The girl in the black sweater.

She was too tall for him. And her smile was too good for him. And her hands were too thin for him and her fingers were too perfect for him and her eyes looked too much inside of him. She saw too much of him. She tattooed every part of him. She dissected him with a glance and it was too much for him. It was him she saw. And he made no barriers for her. He made no qualms. And whenever she walked away from him in her quiet and sashaying way he stared long and hard at the way her hips moved. And he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t paint it out.

His works of late were rife and lank. He was molding something in himself that was molding on and on. White canvases were turmoil and bitter. And he was hiding them in closets around the house. He was hiding himself in closets. He was saving himself from himself. He was hiding away.

She couldn’t have known that he was in love with her. He couldn’t have known he was in love with her. Neither of them knew that they were in love with one another. But he was. And he thought she was. But he couldn’t know.

He didn’t know if he was in love.

He had an incurable wife and a wasn’t of a daughter and they were absorbing him one piece at a time and he was crumbling. He was coffee cake crumbling. And he was tending to her pills and hiding them in closets. And he was bouncing a one year old daughter on his knees. And her legs were still working to work. Working to start. Working to become strong and independent.

But all he could think of was the girl in the black sweater. The girl in the black sweater and her beautiful neck. Her swan neck. Her lithe neck. Her long and lean neck. Her kissable neck. Her scented neck.

Her.

The girl in the black sweater.

And maybe she didn’t love him. Maybe her green eyes were shoving him away. Maybe her green eyes were pulsing hateful and radiant lies at him. Maybe her eyes were a stop sign. Maybe her eyes were a curse. Cursing. Swearing at him up and down and back again waiting for him to say to hell with this and walk. Run. Beg himself away from her. But when he closed his eyes and saw her looking at him it didn’t seem that way. She was curled hair bound to beautiful shoulders and she always smiled at him. Even when she looked on the verge of tears she was smiling at him. She was smiling through him.

And they were connecting and together.

And he couldn’t waste it.

So he closed his eyes and saw her. Tossing her head back in a lilting fit of girl’s laughter. And her hands played on themselves in beauty. And her legs shone and stepped. And her feet were strong and fine. And her body was shimmering and bold. And he heard her song like a prayer or a melody. Singing. Songs. Lyrical eyes green and smiling. Haunting him and carrying on. And he couldn’t paint her out of it. Out of his head. And he didn’t want to. He wanted to close his eyes and see her.

J. A. Tyler is the author of THE GIRL IN THE BLACK SWEATER (Trainwreck Press), EVERYONE IN THIS IS EITHER DYING OR WILL DIE OR IS THINKING ABOUT DEATH (Achilles Chapbook Series), SAMSARA (Paperhero Press), & SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE (Ghost Road Press). He is also founding editor of MUD LUSCIOUS and ML PRESS and was recently nominated for a Pushcart. Visit www.aboutjatyler.blogspot.com for more info.