Jumper / Paramour

His arms fit snugly below her breasts, as though they were made to be there. Almost imperceptibly, his chest rises and falls: the only distinction that he is asleep and not dead. However, his lover is quite awakes, eyes darting nervously across the room; she seems to be waiting for something to happen. Or perhaps it already has and she is looking for what to do. Either way, the woman is clearly anxious and uncomfortable with her position, although she makes no movements as to awaken the man.

If one were to look in on this scene, one would think that the woman was a rabbit in a fox's den, frightened and looking for escape. Once in a while, she twitches as though she can no longer stand the spooning position she is in.

Sighing, the man shifts in his sleep; he rolls out of the embrace and lays on his other side. The woman twitches in relief, seeming to let out a long-held breath. Slowly, quietly, she slides off the bed and slips to a windowsill on the far side of the bedroom; the moon shines softly on her rumpled nightgown, her dirty-blond hair. It makes her think back to when she was only a child, sneaking out of her bed at night to dance in the moonbeams until Mama or Papa caught her and sent her back with a scolding. She feels so old these days, so old and tired and finished. She's used up, has no more strength, can't go on. Her bones ache with weariness, her heart with loneliness.

Of course, she has him, her lover, her other half. They make love every night, kiss and touch and hold, but it doesn't feel real. His love doesn't seem to be able to penetrate her skin anymore, splattering and melting away before she even knows it. The tears that used to come at this point have long since disappeared, dried up by emptiness. As she stares out the window, she wonders what it feels like to die, to fade, to leave in the most final sense of the word; she feels compelled to know.

It wouldn't be so difficult, she muses, just a few of the right type of pills or a kitchen knife. A swallow, a slice, and you vanish. She thinks she'd like to find out what that feels like. No one would miss her, she thinks.

Well, maybe her paramour. What is left of her knows this deep down inside, but honestly? She doesn't care anymore.

In time, his memory of her will fade. He will find a new beloved, a new spooning partner that won't begin to flinch away at his touch. She keeps this thought in mind as she silently unlatches the window and steps out; a light spring breeze plays with her hair and tickles her face. Just as quietly, the woman steps onto the roof and stoops at the very edge, looking down. In the pale half-light, you can see her face clearly, as well as her shoulder length hair that flutters in time with her lavender pyjamas; she is attractive, if not beautiful. Wrinkles are just starting to appear near her gray eyes, but other than that, her face is unblemished. Inside, she feels like a rotting tomato, just waiting to be thrown.

And so she does, stepping off the eleven story apartment building with grace and ease, as though she were descending a ballroom staircase. The woman smiles on the ninth floor, starts laughing on the fourth floor, and when she hits the ground, does not scream. Instead, she makes a startled noise as she crunches on the pavement, crumpling like a rag doll.

At that exact moment, the man starts, waking up so violently he nearly falls off the bed. He notices his paramour is missing, then that the window has become unlatched; she must have gotten warm and restless again and gone for a walk. It's been happening more and more lately, but the man knows she will be back by morning, as she always is. Sleepily, he shuts and locks the window and shuffles back into their shared bed, snuggling with her pillow and breathing in her scent. He falls asleep this way, face pressed into the other side of the bed and hugging her pillow.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow, I will propose and everything will be okay again.

The man dreams of quiet, peaceful things. In his sleep, he smiles.

~

Author's Note

listen to "What's It Feel Like To Be A Ghost?" while you read. or something equally depressing. ahahah.

Reviews

[Vartul]

Hmmm.This tone is a bit familiar.One of my friends,an excellent writer,writes stories of the same style as yours.Seems like you're soulmates.Anyways, this is a beautiful piece,and you've managed a simple yet effective twist.I like it.