I have waited

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNwgOkl5nRY

The couch is a worn, decades-old affair. Thousands of hours of television shows, movies, and games stretching all the way back to Atari had been cast upon that overstuffed beast.

Still, it held up.

It held us.

She'd had it reupholstered after college, such was her attachment to the thing. She grew up with it; that sofa was as much a part of her family as her mother, father, or sisters. As the eldest, as the first to move out and move on, her parents had helped her relocate the thing across dorm halls, state lines, and thresholds.

Probably for the hundredth time, Skywalker discovers his parentage, and she stretches out in front of me. My arm wraps around her. Her back is against my chest; my back is cradled by cushions older than us both.

The volume is low, the hour is late. Her long hair is lightly scented from the morning's shampoo. It blends well with the hint of perfume on her warm, relaxed neck. The touch of my lips to her nape rewards me with a moan and stretch. I sense her smile as she turns slightly, exposing more of herself to explorations.

She pretends to watch a daring rescue as my hand attempts its own daring dash along exposed hip. Her shorts are made for exercise, not for stopping soft explorations. My fingers slide easily between elastic band and gentle, soft curve. There, I stop, savoring the smell of her nape and the feel of hipswell. Her sighs encourage me, and I begin a trek upward. I can only imagine that her eyes are as closed as my own; I'm focused on my sense of touch, excluding everything else I possibly can.

There is only the feel of her under my hand, the press of her body against mine. There is no world outside those night-blackened bay windows that reflect light from an ignored television. There's only my hand on her hip, moving up beneath thin shirt, along heaving ribcage, gently sliding under simple underwire. There is only the warmth of her in my palm, the swell of her body as it gasps, the wind of my breath against and below her ear; my moan echoing her own. There is only our need, expressed in simple terms of touch and togetherness, her form against mine, our forms pressing together and lost.

Her hand finds mine. Gripping me over her shirt as I grip her heated skin, she presses me against her, the message clear, "Firmer." I oblige, squeezing, as my teeth find a place they belong, just above the soft turn of shoulder. I open my eyes long enough to see gooseflesh sprout and encourage me along with wordless cries for more.

Ragged breathing is all I can hear, although I know there has to be a noise in the background. I become vaguely aware of credits rolling and blackness shining from the flat screen.

She begins to move beneath my hand, turning to face me. I have to release her, my disappointment expressed with a groan. She smiles, cupping my face.

We stop.

Breathless, we look at one another as silence truly fills the room.

Her caress becomes a pull, guiding my lips toward hers.

Years pass in those few heartbeats.

We never see the headlights shine through inky windows. We never hear knobby tires against gravel drive or the subdued closing of the door on an old Dodge four-by-four.

We have no way of knowing that the world outside from us on that old couch keeps on spinning, and the people in it kept right on living.

Even if I didn't.

I shouldn't have been there. The word "love" ought not to have been in our vocabulary, because it was a language she already spoke with another.

Along with vows, broken.

Our kiss was shattered.

I never felt the lead ripping me apart. I still believe it a miracle, and a curse, that she was spared injury. I've no emotion whatsoever about her husband, home early from a hunting trip, turning his anger on himself. He showered that blank television with a crimson test pattern.

I wish she'd been spared that.

I wish she'd been spared me.

But we made our choices, and other choices were made for us.

Things aren't what I expected.

I'm still here, and so is the couch. Wherever it goes, I go.

She's gone.

I don't know how long it's been since I held her.

I know I relive that moment, that togetherness, regularly. Like a lucid dream, every detail is perfect.

It's like I'm having a hard time determining when I'm dreaming, or awake. I'm stuck in a loop, and I can't break it. I still see her, I still feel her, I still mourn her, even though she's alive.

I can't remember exactly when we ended, I only know that we did. I don't know how I know the things that I do; my memories are isolated things, fleeting, fading.

Nothing connects as well as it used to. I don't know how long I'll hang on to what is still me.

What I do know is that if this is Hell, I haven't felt the burn.

Maybe this is my Heaven. Stuck here, in this night, with her. On this couch that became a flameless pyre, our warmth shared, the warmth of my life ebbing as she screams.

At least, I think that's how it happened.

She doesn't live here anymore.

I'm not even sure where "here" is.

I sometimes see other people in this different living room. None of them are her, some of them have seen me.

So new strangers come.

I sense fear. I don't mean to frighten.

My mind isn't what it used to be.

When sleep comes, I don't dream.

I'm not waking up as much as I used to.

I'm in a new living room.

I'm starting to forget her smell, but I still remember her feel.

I thought I heard her call out to me not long ago, and there was a flash of white brilliance. I was confused, so I decided to stay and wait for her to come back. She'd stretch out in front of me again, and I'd hold her.

Tightly, forever, like before.

I can't remember the last time I thought of how she felt.

I don't know how long I've waited.

...I'm having a hard time remembering who it is I'm waiting to join me.

This can't be Heaven at all.