Scambled

A collection of semi-random short stories semi-related to my life. Some of it's true, some of it's not. Which is which is for you to decide ;)

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1. December Eleventh, Moonlight Sonata

I couldn't help rememebr how a friend had once described Moonlight Sonata. He said she was girl, a quiet, beaitful, shy thingy with a sugary and knowing smile. Of course, it was his cheesy way of flirting, but as I closed my eyes and felt her against me I couldn't stop her chords and notes from swinging in my head. The rest of the car murmured around us, but we sat silent. I cannot atest to her thoughts, but mine were still, focusing on how my jacket slumped over her body and how she smelled of ciniman and honey. I was just so goddamn lucky, so goddamn happy. Not the frilly happiness you get after petting your cat or eating a good meal, but a deep satisfaction that filled up my chest. 

And yet, Moonlight Sonata is not a happy song, it's in D minor, with the minor chords and notes rhat press deep into the piano's keys. I was bitterly reminded of how screwed up we were, she was. I wanted her to hear my thoughts in that moment, for her to see the proof that I loved her. Tears pricked my eyes, and I glanced at the rearview mirror; oh, how dark the circles under my eyes sunk and how pale my face looked. And yet, there was an almost undetectable rosiness there, a color painted there by her.

I was twisted in that moment, as her cold fingers played my ring. A girl I met that day had asked me if it was a promise ring, and I laughed it off, joking about my single-ness. However, the assumtion stayed with me, for a reason I couldn't quite name. Forgetting all thoughts. I moved the ring to my left hand, deciding that it was, in fact a promise ring. To who I still wasn't sure. 

Then, I put my thoughs away for a moment (she had the power to make me do that) and focused onto her. Her ear was cold against my face, but the other spaces between us were a soft warm, the kind that makes you never want to get up again. Suddenly, her fingers interlaced with mine, and I wondered if she could hear my heart beating. Probably. 

Strangely enough, she didn't appear to care. Neither of us did. Depression, aniety, suicidal thoughts, abuse, they all mingled around us but as I began whispering nothings into her ears, the night didn't appear very scary, the bumps diidn't seem to jar me, the cold didn't seem so frigid. The sonata swung on. 

I can't help but remember how I described Moonlight Sonata to myself that night; that night Bethovan's saddest sonata was her's. 

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