Fire And Ice

I cannot work out if it's fire or ice. I wonder which is worse. I like fire. Intrigue, mystery, dance. Warmth, comfort, destruction, voices which sooth. Ice crackles too, in a glass, when I am defeated. Rejuvenation. Relief. Quenchable.

The sun is high in the sky. A beautiful day. The contrast inside is heavy and uncomfortable. I imagine rain is on the way.

My gaze turns back to her. She is sitting very still, forward in her chair. Like she is waiting for me to pounce. Guarded and cautious. Unsmiling.

I settle for ice. Burning ice, like when you put your hands in the freezer for too long. It stings, but I don't remove my hands. I embrace the pain, which has become a relentless punishment of raw hands. Burning, blistering Ice in her eyes. An unforgiving sheet of cynicism, indifference and distain. Not quite judging, more disappointment. I am reminded of how cold ice is. Despite the sun, the air is chilly and hard. It echoes my emptiness. In her eyes. Blue and white. Like an Arctic morning where the sun is angry, absent, not wanting to be bothered.

Small talk is my protection, but I continue to study her. Can she see me? Beyond. The circles under my eyes, my bright finger nails. The marks on my skin. Beyond. Can she really see me? Right now, in this moment. Can she feel my heart? Can she hear it? Does she know that her ice is pain? Her hideous agony that is screaming through the cracks in the ice. Cracks that have hardened and set by a lifetime of being forced deeper and deeper inside the very core of her body. It reaches as far as her toes. Sometimes cracks are beautiful like when a glass slipped from my hand as I was reaching for it. And then, pieces everywhere. Shimmery and shiny. Puzzle pieces of different shapes and edges. Trying to be put back together, but never to be. Only to be disposed of and forgotten.

"Another cup of coffee"?

She fidgets and then gets up to make it. The fumbles with buttons and boiling water and cups. They are her allies. Her armor, she is preparing for my thoughts to be on my lips. She doesn't like it. I think she dreads it. I know we have something in common. My words are dead to both of us.

While she is busy, I think of the years shared between us and they are consumed by the relentless fire inside of me. These years have brought me here, on this day and I know that her perception is not me. I want to leave but I stay. The final bit of holding on, only to let go in a few minutes as I know what awaits. Perhaps an inkling of the tiniest of hope let's me sit for another minute lasting a lifetime.

I look in her direction. I wonder if the coffee will awaken her to new possibilities. A new way. Any other way than this. I can feel the hope rising and just as quickly, it falls. How can she see me when her eyes never open.

My hands are warmed by the mug which i hold onto with all my might. The interaction continues. I cannot hear her words, nor my own. They are like annoying flies on a hot day. I want her to see inside my soul. To acknowledge the deep gorges and desert dust. Miles of nowhere. A nothingness. The emptiness that is me which I'm desperate to reveal. My empathy, my authenticity, my faults, my love which I am never permitted to give. Years and years of failed attempts at trying to be me. I have a lot of hope, the therapist said. Hope that this time will be better. An unrequited, cruel monologue.

I release my grip on the mug which has cooled down. My hands and body relax. The clarity is overwhelming. I see an image from my youth- the clear ice before our busy, eager feet clamored to destroy it.

It was an activity I'd grown out of. How I adored it. And then I didn't, so I stopped. So simple. I think of this analogy as my mind and heart collaborate, cheering me on. These unattended boxing matches have made me tired. I'm boxing alone and I surrender. It is exquisite. The morning sun is smiling.

I really tried to love her but I couldn't. The purest of light and clarity dance before me and I know this is not love. Nor given nor received. It is not any of this as I put my cup down. I want to go back on the ice one last time. I want to feel the breeze as my heart pounds and my hands and nose become red with my own love and reflection. I want it full of letting go. Of never holding on. I want to be free of the ice that is her. I fly on my own. I don't hear the announcer telling us to change direction.

I have a fierce, pounding love inside, but none is reserved for her. All the uncertainty and tension and futile effort over years and years, almost half my life fall off me. Validation can never be received like this. I know I am worthy and I am free. My coffee cup slips as I pick it up to return it to the kitchen. Its a mess on the floor. A once hot mess with a stream of blackness. No milk for me, nor for her. I clean up what was me and I see annoyance and distain looking back at me. Just like an irritating fly on a hot day.

I hug her goodbye. Her skin is icy. I pray the fire inside of me will warm her. I stop that thought as I walk to the door. It's not up to me anymore. I hold my own love, and hope she comes to hold her own, as I walk out the door.

I smile as I get into my car. I am ice and fire all mashed together. My body tingles. I am love.