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Ten O' clock at night and he was passed out in his comfortable bed dreaming comfortable dreams. All endearing and loving feelings she felt about him were still there but she had the distinct feeling of restlessness creeping over her tiredness, overtaking the fact she had only slept 3 hours last night and nights and weeks before. All sitting up with him. He had become comfortable, he wasn't daring or taking many chances these days. The chance he'd taken to be here with her had been too great on him, perhaps? At any rate, the lust for life seemingly disentegrated in him after he became comfortable with her. She lay looking at the celing and knewknewknew that this man had every characteristic and quality to be the one, to be on fire, if the'd only quit settling. One part of her mind was pissed enough to decide to never call again. Another part shook loose and the old evil filled filled filled her bones, her muscles, her mind, her mouth.
"Talk! Talk! Talk! Talk!," she babbled.
"No sense to it," thought her mother outside the door. She'd never guess her baby would grow up to be someone's midlife crisis, someone else's land of Caanan, someone's fire and light. Her baby was, in all actuality, destined for more and better, but, OH! The phases the children go through when the parents quit looking...
The girl twisted to stare at work done when he had come to inspire her. She smiled at stolen moments. She wanted to rile him out of his month-long sleep, rile him up enough to care to run along. She wanted him to realize the imperatives of taking full advantage, of not settling. She knew he would ultimately stay and she'd leave, that was nearly comforting in itself, but she dreamed of better. She only wanted to be a good crisis.
She drifted into a trance sleep. She floated past her kitchen, past the keys, past his gate, into his door. She wanted to rouse or destroy. She wanted his secrets, she wanted him to care, to not be so indifferent, so goddamn "so what". He and she had found God togheter and still he had gone back to sleep after such a feat. She stared at his sleeping form and she hated his sleeping. What work had he undertaken to deserve to sleep? What difference had he made since he last woke? She saw his racks of subdued CD recordings. She noted his psychiatrist-approved artwork and hated him for it. She wanted to kick holes in his world of saftey and realized he never had intentions of finding meaning and feeling and emotion, again, even, if he ever had.
She floated back to her sleeping form, observed until she wakened, silently throwing enough in her car to get her gone, to drive until a cool calm hit her. She drove past his road. It didn't take a goodbye, it was past that. Ten-thousand times ten past that and he questioned for years in dreams afterwards what had the sprite had against committment and security...?
After all, look at all it had gotten him.