treatswords

Blue was the color of the town I grew up in.

In December the entire town became coated in it.

A pale blue, a warm blue that hung in a string around the belly of a Christmas tree.

Under the gas station sign, the snow turned a florescent blue. The buzzing bulb reflected on the surface.

The ambiance of a jazz club without the music.

Someone could drive by and spot me dancing in it. Wet socks, thick coat, my hands red from dipping them into the blue.

We made snow angels in it once.

The two of us spread apart like dough beneath a tin cookie-cutter.

We left that night damp, undressing in my laundry room, our feat leaving prints on the orange tile.

Seeing him undress made me want to touch his cold skin. But we didn’t cross those lines, not us two.

So instead, I smiled and looked away. He did the same, but I caught his dark eyes lingering on my thighs.

I picture them blue, dancing into the bedroom.

A gypsy in the night, calling him to me.

I wasn’t promiscuous, so the idea of slipping on blue skin, pulling it tight over my knees gave me a rush.

Instead, I scurried away to get us some clothes.

A large green t-shirt on him, old sweats of mine that fit too tight on his chicken thighs.

And me in a long T-shirt, drifting just above my red knees.

We sat on the couch awhile, him waiting for a ride.

I wanted to run out when the headlights casted a blue shadow over the snow, wave the car away with my hands, breath hot, hands folded over my chest.

“Just go.”

Maybe then we’d cross our blue lines.

The ones he created when he said we’d always be friends.

But I wanted them to melt, to blur together.

A pool of blue, just me and you.

Couldn’t we belong there?

“My rides here.”

He says, standing.

“I can bring the clothes back tomorrow.”

I picture them folded tight. Flipping the shirt inside out, finding it a shade of blue.

I would send him a text, displaying the inside of the shirt.

“See. We are blue, don’t fight it any longer.”

I’d wait for a reply, finally falling asleep on my phone.

In the morning his name on my screen.

“I’d try washing it again, it’ll come out like most stains do.”