The Middle

"Winter Chill"
It was so cold, so cold we could see our breath. Smoky air hovered around us like we were chain smoking that many cigarettes. But this air was fresh and clean. And it only smelled chilly.
��������My nails were turning purple, from painted white to dark purple. His hands were red, like he'd stuck them in a can of red paint.
��������If it was so cold where were our coats, our mittens? Lost, forgotten, alone on the sidewalk a few feet back. Left to guard our books and bags. Marking our stuff so we wouldn't loose them in the white, the cold white air.
��������Flying high, not like a kite, we were free of restricting strings that only let us fly so far. High and free in the chilly air. In the smoky thin air. We weren't high, the smoke was not left over from a joint. It was merely our breath, our breath mingling with the cold, mating to form smoke. Our breath. Our fingers, hands, bodies, forgotten coats, books, and bags.
��������Memories of a lost day in winter.




"Sleeping Coats"
Our coats are shed, they're there. Resting on the bed comfortably, one on top of the other. His darker colored coat on top of mine.
��������We stand near the open window his fingers are white. They curl around the window sill holding it tight. My hands are red, I can feel the heat radiating off of them and my face. I let my hand drop from my tangled hair, it falls fast and stops. Stops so suddenly and close to his. Breathe.��������
��������We both breathe.
��������The air is fogging over, the window is sliding shut because he is closing it. His fingers resume their white-knuckled death grip, I let mine drop to the back of his hand. We touch.
��������And then we breathe, we're covering the glass of the window with our breath. His hands are on my face, my hands touch his chest. We embrace tightly and exchange breath. He tastes of lemonade. Like lost summers, not like now. Now its only winter.




"Exchanging Hands"
The trucks heater is busted, we could turn on the AC but that would be suicide. His hands on the wheel have started to shake. Our hands are the same color, red, frozen. Its funny how the color red means your hands are freezing. Fire is red and its hot, so shouldn't your hands turn blue like water, or clear?
��������His pained cough brings me back. Our hands touch, softly like ice cubes clinking together in a glass of iced tea. We're so cold, dying in the cold. The headlights falter and for a second the road is dark.
��������Crying out I grasp his hand.
��������His hand holds tight to the wheel.
��������I feel more than hear him cough, the truck swerves as the headlights come back on. He slows the truck, I don't know why he didn't do this before. We're spitting gravel from under the wheels, the truck stops. And we embrace, I'm sliding across the seat to him. He is touching my face, pushing my hair aside, grasping my shoulder with icy fingers. Our breath comes out in clouds, we're beginning to fog the window over.

��������I feel the roughness of his face, trace my fingers over the day old stubble. Put my nose to his throat and inhale. We're touching so softly yet chills are there. From the cold, from his hands. From us.
��������The windows are covered in our breath, in us. His hand touches mine again, I raise both of them to the windshield. His palm is flat against it, I press against him. We breathe. He pulls his hand away and there is a perfect dark spot left. I count his fingers one at a time. Then he is taking my hand, pressing it against the glass and his on top of mine. We breathe.
��������Now there are two perfect hand prints. He counts my fingers on my real life fleshy hand. He kisses their tips one by one. Holds my hand tight as we exchange breath. As we begin to fog up the windows again. Covering our hand prints. Living through the cold.




"Poison Medicine"
It was suicide, rushing about with no coats or mittens. Our faces glowed red, our hands shook with icicle fingers. Numb hands that fumbled with everything they touched. Fingers that shocked you with how cold they were. Our bodies were full with a sickness that we couldn't cure. The air was our best medicine to slow the clock and our worst poison to speed it up. Our feet flew over icy sidewalks, the soles of our shoes smacking the concrete with every quick step.
��������Frozen fingers entangled with frozen fingers, punishing and pleasing in every way. Our breath was the largest cause for the hole in the ozone. We left a trail of smoke behind us with every inch we went. We'd window shop just to fog them over. Then use our fingers to rub out our names. Like children we would run, hand in hand then fall into some snow laden field or yard to embrace.
��������The stars are out and we're still laying in the snow. Its soaked through our clothes and to our bones. His cough scares me more than my not being able to feel anything but him. With him these is a cure, and lemonade because its summer with him.




"Lemonade Chalk"
Warmth. Our bodies sitting close, hands lightly touching. We'd waited the winter out, sat in the snow as it melted from our bones. The trees had green leaves again and his cough was gone. Our fingers have defrosted and with every breath we felt a warmth flow through us. Envision the cold receding and feel cured. Our hands have turned back to their living fleshy colors, not frozen red anymore. We finally fixed the heater in the truck, though now that doesn't matter.
��������Sitting in our once snow laden field we breathe in the temporary cure and drink. Drink to the warmer days with lemonade. Toss our hands up and shout, proclaim our happiness, our togetherness to the small town.
��������Instead of fogged over windows with our tags left we use chalk. Our hands both do the deeds, the evidence is left on them in powered form. In an abundance of colors too. Why not paint? Why don't we leave our mark for years to come? We're gentle. And simple. And children at heart. We still play hide n seek in the tall grass, catch fireflies under the stars. Trying to forget our disease of winter.




"Lovers Pond"
The days were hot, like walking on the sun. We added more flame to the fire by building our own, fires that is. Tossing marshmallows into the flames to watch them blow up. It scorched us, the fire. Smoke ran down our throats, soot blackened our hands. It probably blackened our lungs but we didn't complain. We took all this in like medicine.
��������When the days grew so hot teenagers went down to the pond, we did too. Others skinny dipped in it, raced to it while tearing off their clothes. We swam in our way. Our hands would be on the starting tree, the rough back felt so good, so harsh yet nice.
��������We stood naked, our clothes waited at the edge of the pond. With a smile, we started, we ran. I was ahead of him, I think he wanted it that way. I never looked back, I just ran. I loved the rush yet hated how the speed of running was like a cool wind all across my skin. Tripping up, stumbling to the ground. My hands hit the dirt, my knees hit and I swear I heard the left one crunch on something. His hands hovered over me, unsure. Our hands touched, mine still covered with dirt. He pulled me to my feet slowly, careful to keep our bodies distant. The closest he allowed himself to be was to brush hair off my cheek, to tuck it behind my ear. He brushed the dirt off my hands and then I bent over to pluck a small sharp stone from my knee. It was bleeding but there was no pain. We had lived through winter, no cut or burn, fall or mutilation was worse than that.
��������We walked towards the pond, hand in hand. It was only a few feet away, we decided we had tied this time. When we arrived we grabbed our clothes and started to dress. With the last tie of our shoelaces we were ready. Together we leapt into the pond. Skinny dipping in our way. Embracing as the water lapped around us. We touched so softly, exchanged breath and love in our way. We both loved this, being different, being normal, feeling cured. The summer never lasted long enough. The lemonade always ran dry too soon. Together we fought, lived, and played through the summer.




"Our Confessions"
Down the rabbit hole into a wonderland of lemonade, chalk, skinny dipping with clothes on and heat. So much heat, the sidewalks baked and would punish anyone who tried to walk on it barefoot with blisters.
��������Do you know the definition of weird, freak, abnormal? What about the word disease? If you heard someone talking about those words would you think of us? We are. Weird, freaks, abnormal� that is, we are different from the norm. We are simply us, we live and breathe, eat, drink, and love. We are.
��������People in the town stare, they stare and point and whisper then laugh right in our faces. But they don't know, only we do. We could tell them, but both of us decided long ago not to bother.
��������Who are we? That used to be our quest, to find out. Now we only exist for two things. For each other, and to keep looking for the impossible cure. Until then� we just survive.

��������The air is starting to turn again, summer never lasts long enough. Never. Because its always too soon that winter comes back around. The chilly air wraps around our throats and then we fight. Like every winter we fight to keep alive. Just survive.




"The Begining"
With a chill back in the air we took to riding in the truck again. The tank was full, as it had been all summer. We'd only put gas in it once, at the end of winter the year before. Our hands were toasty, we warmed them in front of the heater. The trucks cab seemed more snug, we had stocked up on sugary foods, salty chips, caffeinated drinks and chocolate. Brown paper shopping bags lined the floor of the truck, overflowing with this junk. There was one other item that we had never took the comfort of having before. A simple thin, fleece blanket. We tried to forget about it by stuffing it behind the seat, we'd survived without it before. Why should we give in to temptation to live by cheating with it now?
��������His hand touched mine softly, his touch was already turning cold. And then, he coughed. Closing his eyes in pain, it didn't hurt, not just yet. But both of us could imagine the agony soon to course through his body. My fingers turned cold under his touch, our eyes met. He pulled off the road so suddenly the truck spit gravel behind us. Moving over I touched his forehead feeling the chill. Winter was starting with a bang.




"Rotating Earth"
He is sitting in the starting tree, legs hanging down on the right side. I toss a bag of salty potato chips up to him, then climb up and sit beside him. He holds onto one side of the bag, I the other. His smile is three and we pull. Pop! The bag pulls open and the smell of chips make my mouth water. He tilts the bag my way, offering, I take a chip and bite into it. Tasting the salt, hearing the crunch, feeling the crispness. We sit, eating chips, watching the sun go down. But really the sun isn't going down. Sure, it may move but in all honest truth, its us. The Earth is moving, always turning, and now its turning away from the sun so night can rein over the land again. We finish the chips as the last rays of sunlight disappear. With them gone the air turns even colder, suddenly we can see our breath. He slips of the branch and lands with a soft thud on the ground below. Grasping the empty chip bag in my left fist I follow suit, sliding off the branch. He helps steady me as I land, we look at the starting tree with sad faces. I touch its trunk to feel the rough bark one last time. A decision has been made, it may be good, it may cause harm. Whichever we are together on this. We're leaving.




"Black Neon"
In the truck, on the road, eating junk food, warming our hands. The road stretches out before us , dark and� cold. I look at the speedometer and cringe, sure we're driving along an old road that's rarely used, but still. He coughs painfully and then slows the truck, looking at me like 'There you silly scaredy bear.' Its an old joke. Like, Piglet who frightens easily, but Winnie-The-Pooh has always been my favorite. The only thing wrong with Pooh is that he is a bear with very little brain. So we switched it, and that's just fine with us.
��������The road has been dark for hours, our headlights shining weakly out in front of us. The stars are hidden tonight, playing hide n peek through the dark clouds. Even the moon is playing. And suddenly, there is a large neon sign ahead in the dark. Like a beacon, or a lighthouse guiding men home to safety when a storm brews on the sea. We pull into the parking lot, park a few slots down from a fancy red sports car. Jumping out of the cab, slamming the doors as we race against the cold to get in the foyer. He holds the door open as I slip inside. He lets the door shut, it jingles, walking up to the front desk he pays for a room to spend the night in.

��������The room is nice, two beds, a plasma t.v, a good sized bathroom, a coffee pot, and a mini fridge with freezer. I bet the only thing you could fit in the freezer is an ice cream sandwich or two. For some reason the window AC unit is on, I shut it off quickly and watch as he slips off his shoes, getting ready for bed. The alarm clock reads 2:27 AM in large red numbers and letters, the glow is so strong I wonder if when we turn the light off it could shine onto the opposite wall. I hadn't realized how late it was, our clock/radio in the truck hadn't worked for years. I felt the weight of needing to sleep dragging my body down. Feeling heavy limbed I crawled into bed, rolling over to give him a goodnight smile.

��������I woke shivering once, twice during the early morning. The third time I woke was because I was suddenly� warm. His arm was draped on my side, his face inches from the back of head. The covers from his bed were on top of me too, the sweet boy was already asleep again and soon I was too. Warmth during winter was nice.