Bursting the Dam or Going For Broke

Hank Williams- Lost Highway

I have remarkably fitful dreams for such deep sleep. It was if I hadn't slept in a hundred years. It was the first exhalation in months of breaths. I keep dreaming these vivid visages of my exact whereabouts. Everything exactly as it is, only clouded. A shuffling pair of boots on the hardwood, a door creaking open, then shut. A roar of an engine or muffled whispers. The hazy act of awakening over and over. Reality bleeding into the nocturne until one cannot be discerned. There are no clocks, my concept of time completely obliterated. There is an alarm clock on the nightstand, but it is menacing in its blackness. I don't want to get up just yet, but feel as though I should. I roll around in the sheets for a bit as my Id often wins. I keep inhaling as deeply as I can. There is this intoxicating scent to the sheets that I can't quite tear myself away from. I spot the crumpled black t-shirt on the floor; my only real motivation to arise. I reach for it and casually slip it over my head. It smells of him. I breathe it in, recording the memory as best I can in my vaporous state. My mind swirls and eddies with a million heart-pounding ideas. I feel overwhelmed, welcomingly so. It becomes too much for me and I finally let go.

There I was, staring back at these crimsoned features, in the harsh bathroom light, with bloodshot eyes streaming gossamer saline. It looked oddly beautiful for a moment. And it felt even better. I guess my supposed stone-cold heart hasn't quite calcified yet, I think flippantly to the mirror. A wave of terror crashes over the rocks of my mind. I begin to tremble. I steady myself on the vanity. Those deep breaths catch in my throat. I can feel it constrict. It tingles and strains in its attempt to take in oxygen. As calescent as my face feels; it burns with acid and pressure, my spine is dancing with cascading chills. My grip tightens on the sink. The tears are surging now, no demure solitary droplets tastefully rolling down my flushed cheek. Rivers of precipitation deluge in avalanchic falls. Shit, shit , shit. I know what this is. Oh, do I ever know what this is. The dam burst. This whole thing, us, this, him. He burst the god dam. The dam the tireless beavers of my calloused heart and jaded mind were so diligently rebuilding with all their buck-toothed fervor. It held pretty solid for a while there; steady and strong throughout a few seasons. Only shaking a few branches loose, briefly, one low-slung full moon night during a particularly tempestuous summer storm. The dam taking a few months to repair; insurance claims, union laborers, and all that bureaucracy. Scores of red tape, but there it was, more leaden than ever. It always uses the damned side door, doesn't it.

As much as she tried to keep composed, waiting for the other shoe to drop, completely tensed with her breath bated. It was already too late. She should have known at midnight in the kitchen of good and evil, when she couldn't meet his eyes. She wanted to, Jesus, did she want to, but she couldn't. Apprehensive. Nervous. Goddammit. She doesn't get nervous. Fuck. She invented the game. Why can't she seem to breathe? Fuck. Her heart races; her mind blanks as she leans against the wall in a feeble attempt at sedation. They lock eyes for the briefest of seconds, but the intensity is choking. Fuck. She is nervous. What is this bullshit? W.C. has long since headed for the hills, leaving just her to deal with this. She always effing bails when any modicum of illegal emotion sneaks its way across the Rio Grande in the dead of night. But you can't blame an Appaloosa for its nature. That which makes her wild makes her beautiful, that which makes her untamed; makes her pure. Callous and Jade are no match for the charm of a fair-skinned true spirit. Quixotic is the only soldier left to fight, but Quixotic has been behind a desk for quite some time, she's rusted and weary; the scars and burns thinly veiled. It wasn't bashfulness; it was fear. Wicked seduction is W.C.'s field. Connection and romance are left to the more sentimental humours. W.C. never makes love. She only lusts for herself, really. But not Quixotic, not the real heart. She only makes love with the purest of emotions; those handful of times. All she can do is feel. There are so many bound-up emotions to untangle. That's why she can't meet his eyes in that moment.

I look at my ruined eyes in the mirror. God damn it. I did it, as much as I tried to thwart it. I left the side door open. I don't want to move from this delicate, morose moment. The balance between emotion and facade finally apparent. The iron jacket that so entombed her Cor had been surreptitiously swung open with a few swift chisels to the keystone hinge. The dam was becoming increasingly unstable, the rapids of sentiment building up the pressure until the dam was wrenched and bowed. The rush of the water is deafening as her breath quickens and her hips desperately try to keep time. It's exquisite in its intensity, but the pleasure is weakening her muscles. All of the feeling has pooled inside; the rhythm in perfect dynamism. It mercifully reaches its crescendo, as she has lost all control of her musculature. But her breath refuses to return to its normal pace. It sounds like thunder, her heart beating like a drum line. Her legs are trembling, and she shivers with excited relief. She collapses on top of him, not wishing to move. She wants to bask in it as long as politely possible, but much longer than that. The only real impetus to move comes from the feeling returning to her thighs. They burn and sear with the strain of tendons. She lets the fire accrue until the swelter is impossible before she finally releases him. The air roils with the most delicious smoke.

I don't want to take off the well-worn onyx cotton awash in the scent of foreign laundry soap and possibility. I think about wearing it out, but neatly fold and replace it. For the first time, in a long time, I am feeling almost in the holiday spirit, with ideas of Christmas playlists. What a weird thing to think. I am simultaneously frightened and delighted with a stupid smile. Every tune on the radio is better than the last.


Post Script: Too old to be broken-in, too young to be tamed, someone with a steady hand need be driving the reins. All in, going for broke through tumult and drought, the purse; someone in her corner to hold her hand, to share a few laughs.