She was beautiful, after all, swaying there. Her head slightly cocked to the side. Her long bangs tickling her eyelashes. She held her mouth in the same position as she did when he was inside of her. Her hair moving ever so slightly as to expose the part of her back she once loved having his perfectly shaped lips touch.
He didn't want her to stop moving. He pushed her leg with the palm of his hand. The wooden rafters creaked as the friction of the nylon rope scraped across them.
Thirty minutes...one hour...one and one half hours he sat swaying her body just to see the fabric of her skirt brush the back of her calves.
His phone rang...It was another girl. Vibrant, no doubt. And excellent lover, for sure. But she had something on her. For it is only in death that he expresses emotion other than fear and trepidation. Only in death can his empty, sallow soul feel the slightest twinge of love. He would never love the girl on the other end of the phone. The one he loved now swung lifeless from the wooden rafters in apartment 48B.
His phone rang again, and he answered.
He: Looks like I'm going to be in town this weekend.
Her: Oh really? Why?
He: Bad news (he said flippantly) a friend of mine just died. The service will probably be this weekend.
Her: What?!?! That's horrible. I'm so sorry, baby.
He: So, you have plans Friday?
Her: Actually, I'm in Chicago this weekend. I'm sorry to miss you.
He: Yeah.......me too.
He eulogized the the swaying girl nicely, using blatant Cathcer in the Rye references. Why had not he told her? It was and always will be, because she was still alive. Alive means fear for him. Trepidation for him. He would not allow it. Death, now...Death is liberation. He is now free to feel even more selfishly. That it is he with the immense pain. That he will have to live knowing that he loved her. He could have saved her. But he did not. He does not sacrifice. He lays down no offering.
He gazed down, alone, at her empty body encased in a meager wooden box. Her eyes were forever closed now. Her skin, waxy. Her hair, nestled under the back of her head, as she was far away meeting with Phlegyas.
I love you.
You selfish Fuck.
But, I do love you.
Only (she chuckles) because I'm gone.
No, goddammit, I LOVE YOU.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Oh no, it is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempest and is never shaken.
He hated Shakespeare. Especially sonnets prolificated by movies. He hated many things, but even as she haunted him by thought, his selfish love flourished. He was free of her. And now, free to love only her, until the next one creates her own demise.
