They were sleeping on the bed. Minds connected. Bodies living in resistance. His fingers were aching to feel her hair. Her fingers were itching to hold his. It was a strange feeling. A strange bond. One that LSD had prescribed. There was an unusual calm. Eerie to the world, scaring the souls. The idea of being together was daunting them. She poured a drink for herself and kept it at the side table. His glass was already there. Half devoured. It spoke of the unquenchable thirst. She knew that. Yet, she poured a glass for herself, or so she wanted to believe.
The Kerouac in him had taken a sabbatical. The Plath in her was inching closer to her destination. They were an odd couple. There was a time where they had hesitantly relished each other.
A half-hearted effort that yearned for justice. It crawled upon them at every interaction. Spoken. And unspoken. He was changing by the week. He called it growing up. She called it drifting away. Her growing hair was testimony for her longing. One inch below the waist, just the way he wanted. Minutes turned into hours into days into weeks, encapsulating time into moments. Fleeting was their nature. Erratic and sporadic, moments were soon turning into memories. Stamped with past, future was dwindling in the horizon.
She took a gulp. The glass was half empty now. He wanted to give this another shot. He was waiting for her. She was with him at this moment. She turned to the other side of the bed. “Are you awake?”