It feels like chills down my spine, like all your hairs standing on end, like everything’s operating at the speed of light, at a hundred degrees, at lightning voltage, at maximum volume.
It feels like nothing at all.
I lie in the grass. It’s Tuesday. Wendy lies beside me, eyes closed, breathing softly.
I trail my fingers along her arm, smooth and warm in the sun.
Nothing.
I press up against her, back to front. The strands of her brown hair brush against my face.
Nothing.
The grass doesn’t tickle. The sun doesn’t heat. The wind doesn’t whip against my skin.
I kiss her lips. Nothing.
A year ago, everything was different. Nerves were alive. Love was new. Accidents had yet to happen.
A stray piece of Wendy’s hair lies against her cheek. I fold it back behind her ear, tuck it alongside the others. Does she feel like silk? Does she feel like straw? I don’t know. She smells like roses and rainwater.
Wendy rolls over onto her side, facing me. She smiles, lips pink and wide. Genuine. She reaches for my hand and entwines our fingers, blue on black.
Wendy closes her eyes. I close mine. Behind my eyelids it is dark with white sparks, dots in the night sky. The sparks feel like recycled electricity channeled through me, just passing by on their way to somewhere else. They feel like fire and ice at the same time, they feel like a memory. They feel like everything and nothing at the same time.
I feel cold. I feel like frosting and expired eggs, I feel tired, I feel like I need a drink. I feel like taking off Wendy’s clothes, I feel like saying goodbye to her forever. I feel like a father and a mother, a bastard and a liar, a priest and a prisoner, a thief and a champion. I feel like a newborn and an old man, I feel like I’ve just climbed Everest. I feel like I’m all choked up, like I can’t breathe, like the cops are hunting me down as I’m speeding down the highway, seconds away from freedom. I feel like crying.
I feel nothing.
Corin Reyburn 