Battered

I always find it hard to breathe when I'm thinking. When I'm thinking really hard, really deep into the edges of my mind, I just forget to focus. My head is feeling light and I realize I'm doing it again. My eyes come back into focus just as my lungs flood with warm, mid-day Arizona air. I see someone staring back at me. The blue marbles, pupils contracted, my head spins.

"Oh, sorry." I mutter, biting my tongue a little.

He laughes; his breath caresses my face. I'm lightheaded again.

"You okay? You've been kind of spacey." His voice is gentle, cautious. The eyes are guarded, poised, waiting.

I shake my head a few times. It reels. The dizzy spells have been plaguing me for days.

"No, I'm just thinking 's all." The words come out slow and I shift my stare to the other end of the diner. I let my eyes pass the tiled walls, the vinyl seats, the checkered floor, like a wave. They wash over each object and then back again, examining the details. The paint-cracks and the leftover crumbs from last night's dinner rush glare at me. There is a man across from us sipping coffee and reading a crisp newspaper. I try to make out the headlines, but give up as he turns the page. The rattle of pages startles me.

"Are you sure?"

He is still staring, I see the concern, but his jaw is set, like he knows what I'm going to say. He always reads me so well. I can't help but hate my own face for being so inconspicuous. I remember howhappy it made him to be right, to know what was in my head.

I decide not to give him the satisfaction.

"I'm truely and completely okay." I smile, but it tastes bitter and dry against the back of my teeth. I let it drop. I look down at my food, untouched. My stomach does a flip.

"Please eat something."

There's that concern again. I dare my eyes to cross the tip of his nose, to look at him square again. I do. My stomach is doing cartwheels. I know there's no color left in my face. He notices too and reaches for my hand across the table. I recoil, this time more out of reflex than actual fear. The polarities of our souls are finally repelling.

The bridge of his nose is wrinkled in frustration. He pulls his hand back and rests it in a loose fist on the table. My eye twitches at the sight. I wonder for a moment what my face looks like these days.

I push away my food.

"I can't," I whisper.

That hurts him. He looks at his own half-eaten burger, resting in greasy wax paper and bites his lip. It is the same expression as the day we left together. Only, somehow then his eyes were bluer.

He tightens his jaw, his mouth is a line now. "Then I won't."

I can feel myself tensing, my pulse rising, but I breathe hard and swallow it. This is what he always does, how he thinks he can reel me back in after the blow. Guilt. I sigh loudly. I can't look at him. I can't put his face back together, back to that velvet, sandy stone figure I used to love. I watch the man with the paper, just over his shoulder. I feel my eyes drift out of focus again.

"Please?"

My jaw tightens. "No."

"Listen to me."

I clench my fist atop the table. "No."

"I'm sorry."

I swallow hard and try to taste those words, try to feel the texture of his tone against the back of my tongue, grind the words between my teeth like gristle. They seem real enough.

But so does the twitch in my left eye, the soreness of my neck and shoulders, the heavyness of my head.

So does everything else.

He wraps up his food and puts it back on the tray. Then he takes mine and wraps it up, but he leaves it off to the side, obviously planning to take it with us.

With us.

I can't believe I'm leaving with him. But, I know that I am, and that nothing will stop me from following him to the car. What a magnificent lamb I have become, trotting along behind him, head down, watching the passing blacktop against my tennis shoes, trying to not look at him across the hood as we climb in. I forget who I was, where I went and who might have taken my sense from me.

And then I remember.

I remember how the dash used to shine in the early morning as we crossed the border into Missouri, Kansas, Colorado. I remember the air against my face from the open window and how soft it felt. I remember being jealous of that wind as it whipped his hair about the headrest and how comfortable it was to just be in that car. It's practically my home now. The passenger seat is where I belong, curled up with my books and cameras.

How can I get home without it?

Leave it, I could not.

Leave him...I was still trying to figure out.