If You Could Call It That

I've spent a week trying to describe it. I say "I", because I'm brave (or at least trying to be). But it defies description, and I'm starting to suspect it's because it all worked out so well. It wasn't like real life, where plot is sparse and erratic. It wasn't like writing stories, when you can add the exact right amount of conflict to make it believable. It wasn't like plays or movies or conversations, when you can feel the push and the pull between two people, sense the tides, the gives, the tells. At first, it was more like a dance between two willing and knowledgeable partners, except neither person wanted to admit to dancing, so they pretended that they really only came here to enjoy the music and wander about the room in an organized manner. It was more like we were circling, arms outstretched, refusing to touch. We knew the pieces would fit, but we were wary to construct. So I seduced the moment, slipping one block perfectly onto the next, everything working so hard so we wouldn't have to.

It was almost effortless, but only because we needed it to be. I did not have to push or be pulled. We floated aimlessly until we met in the middle, and then suddenly it was only that, only us, only breathing, until we retracted and waited for the next collision, detached in the presence of intimacy.

Demetrius

Because when he was there, it was like catching a drizzle, and when he was gone, it was something worse. Emptiness, the kind in a house after the last box has been packed and loaded; emptiness harder than emptiness alone, because it was not truly empty but a quarter full of a dull, achy hurt, just enough to slosh around at the bottom and make some noise. She didn't want it to be that way, but it was. There was something possessing about him, about the way he would not be possessed. Or, at least, not by her. Not that she would give him the satisfaction of open pursuit. She wasn't that far into the forest yet. But the want was undeniable, so she let it sit there, as undisturbed and untended as it was unintended.

Because she doesn't know how to understand him. He's like starting a story in the middle, the first hundred or so pages ripped out or blacked out, redacted, redacted, redacted. His open book is no good to her. She doesn't speak that damn language, anyhow.

Honesty

Sometimes I want to take my reasons and throw them on the ground in front of all of them, everyone. I want to tell them that they're all there, every last explanation, every last why. Count. I dare you, you sick bastards. Count these small things, the ones that matter so much that you'll throw them away at a moment's notice. Excuse. Justification. Unsatisfactory. Just plain damn not good enough. But they are there. And that is the one thing that you cannot deny.

Don't Jump, Part 2

HONOR
No! Of course not! Why, do I seem...I mean, do I give off the appearance of someone who--

John
Hold on. Have you?

HONOR
Have I what?

JOHN
Done this before.

Honor
...maybe.

JOHN
Before as in, one crazy night in the boy's dorm at college twenty years ago? Or before as in...more than once?

Honor
Ten years ago, thanks. And no, you're my first...

JOHN
Okay.

HONOR
...this year. I've done...well, four others.

JOHN
Four?! And you've chickened out every time?

HONOR
"Chickened out"? Really nice. What is this, the third grade?

JOHN
Four times?

HONOR
You're really not what I expected. Your tactics aren't normal at all.

JOHN

I'm not normal.

HONOR
They usually ask nice, harmless questions. What's your name is the first one.

Beat.

HONOR
Oh, come on. I'm feeding it to you. Just ask me.

JOHN
What's your name?

HONOR
It's Honor.

JOHN
Anna?

HONOR
No, HONOR. H-O--

JOHN
Oh.

Beat.

HONOR
You really suck at this, don't you? Aren't you going to ask me anything else?

JOHN
Such as?

HONOR
Everyone's approach is slightly different. Not so different, but it varies, I guess. Some get personal. They tell me their names, too.

JOHN
I'm John.

HONOR
Then they just...ask me about myself. Little details. Children. They always ask if I have children.

JOHN
Do you have children?

HONOR
God, no. Twice I lied and said I did. A girl, two years old, father left me when I was pregnant. Cute little thing with blond curls. I was just trying to help them out, because God forbid you are a woman without a child. Suicidal, fine, but never alone.

Beat.

HONOR (CONT’D)
So? Got any ideas of your own? Any other questions for me?

JOHN
When did you start faking suicide attempts as a hobby?

HONOR
Who says I'm faking? Who says I'm not one-hundred-percent serious right now and just screwing with you?

JOHN
I won't tell on you.

HONOR
It started, like, four years ago. It was real the first time. It really was. I thought it was. I was so lonely, and I guess I convinced myself that that was the only way out. I lived in Utah before that. I used to rock climb a lot. So many great outdoor cliffs. I loved it. You couldn't think about falling or you got stuck. You had to focus on getting higher without thinking about how high you were. It was so zen, just...looking around. It kept me sane. And then I lost my job and had to move to New Jersey. Have you ever been to New Jersey, John?

JOHN
I think everyone has, at some point.

HONOR
Yes. Just passing through on your way to New York or something, right? But still, you saw a good amount of the state?

JOHN
Sure.

HONOR
Then you understand where I'm coming from. Everything got so gray. So I decided to go back to Washington.

JOHN
I thought you lived in Utah.

HONOR
No, I grew up in Washington. It's kinda gray there, too, but I had started to dream about it. About fourth grade.

JOHN
Fourth grade?

HONOR
The year that we drove into the city for a field trip to the Space Needle. I got the stomach flu that week, and I never really got around to visiting it before I moved away. Anyway, once I was exiled to Jersey, I was having all these dreams about how incredibly great it would be to go there and go up high and look down again.