Familiar

There’s very few things that are worse than murder. Unfortunately, this is one of them. 

Saturday nights are God-made and heavensent, usually as quiet or as rowdy as you want each one to be—you prided yourself in that control. It’s always paid off too, as you were able to drag yourself this far out and away from home for nothing more than, you swear, a change of scenery. No matter that it led you to one of the high-end bars at the high-end end of high town that you knew even before stepping out the door or stepping in that would bleed you dry. It was just a change of scenery, you swear.

Who are you kidding? You're here in a place you don't belong in, pretending to be someone you're not, putting yourself just a little farther away from the past you can't run from. You're lying to yourself, claiming this is some treat you deserve, lying that you've moved on, yet you have the gall to act like you didn’t see this shitshow of a life come at you. 

Your forehead is sticky with spilled beer and diluted salt on the refined yet antique bartop, which as of late has been a familiar feeling that you’d rather wasn’t familiar at all. Your consciousness rebuilds slowly and steadily from the ashes or fragments or what have you, and you decide it’s better to be off of the bartop than on. Not that you wanted to, but your bearings were handed back to you by the situation as demanded: your uneasy nap was interrupted by a barfight gone awry and headed right for you, and from context clues each shove and threat brought it closer and closer to the stool you were occupying. The overhead lights disoriented you, making whatever’s swirling in your head that much worse, mixing the blacks and whites and grays behind your eyelids something gruesome for your sorry little mind. 

It’s getting rowdier, more restless, and you start to be able to figure out what they’re saying: “Fuck you, that’s my girl,” “Back off, she picked me,” “Babe, let’s just please go home.” Even with everything in your body telling you to just sit still and take it like you deserve, your self-preservation gets the better of you, but only for a split second; you hop on out of the barstool, limping to the right, barely making it away from the pair starting to scuffle right where you were seated. Just then, you bump into the one next to you, into someone else just as destitute as you seemed to be. They nearly fall out of their own stool, but just as well, as the fight spreads across the bartop all the same. 

This girl, under her bangs, has that red spot on her forehead—stained amber and smelling slightly sweet—right on the position your own forehead feels sore, and with the fight attracting too much attention, you resolve to take her with you as you go. Grab her by the arm, lead her away from the center of the room. But even as you tug at her, at times too hard and others nearly loose enough to lose her, she pulls you back all the same. While your body wants to bring her somewhere to the back, in a booth way too welcoming to be empty, she stumbles you both to the door instead. After a quick push against the wall, the front door swings open as a couple bouncers enter to break up the fight. As if swiping on a moment that would slip away if you let it, you lead her out and into the deep night. 

But this isn’t her.

It was uncanny how familiar this girl was. The fog in front of your eyes slowly lets up, and with your newfound vision you could bet on the possibility that you’ve seen everything about her in the past, even in the face of the fact that you’re hellishly certain that this is the first time you’ve met. It’s her eyes—those deep, dark, mysterious eyes—that ring every bell in your head, the way her hair falls on her forehead and around her face that you could put your life on the line that you know her.

And that she hates you. God, you could die from the thought. 

She leans her head on your shoulder. The pressure grows, both physical and emotional, as she starts nodding off and you struggle a bit more to keep her upright. She’s taller than you’re used to, but nothing you can’t handle. Despite the alcohol running through your veins and hers, you know in your heart of hearts that this is a bad idea. You could break the ice, but why should you? And yet—

“Thanks,” she mumbles.

“No problem.”

And silence, save for the low noises of the deep night. There’s the not-nearby-enough racket of the fighting getting worse before it gets better, the low hum of electricity running up and down the copper wires of the lamppost overhead, the occasional car vrooming past on what should be a busy night but for some reason isn’t. And of course, this girl next to you, tapping away on her phone without so much as a hair out of place. White fills her screen—apparently not a dark mode enjoyer—as she types in her address into the cab hailing app. 

It's strange as strange can be, to share a moment like this with a person like that. Calm, quiet, albeit a little bit inebriated, to stand out in the middle of a nice night with the moon full in the sky, with a girl that's too pretty, too tolerant, too quiet that it's almost eerie. 

“You're new.” You look over to find her dull, dead eyes boring holes right through you, or so you think. She speaks with a certain flatness in her voice, almost disinterested, almost disdain. It's all too familiar, and you're starting to hate that word and everything it represents, if not for—

“Got anywhere to be?”

“Sometimes I look in her eyes and I find a glimpse of us.”

Definitely too close to home. 

The cab ride is quiet too, but less so hostile and more just… if silence could scream, if wordlessness could be capslocked. Instead, it’s filled with a somber song from the radio of the exact thing you’ve been trying to avoid being shoved right in your face. You sit by one window, she by the other, and a whole hump of cushion stays disrespectfully vacant between you. She’s resting her cheek on the heel of her palm, staring out the window into nothing at all, nodding off some and witnessing the night others. 

She’s beautiful in a way you can’t help but hate. 

The moment she looks over, confesses her eyes again to yours, your chest fills up with something like a suffocating foam. It takes up all the air, all the space it can, leaving you breathless and helpless and useless except to stare back in awe of how familiar everything about her is. You know in your heart that those eyes are hiding a secret, and you can feel in the pit of your stomach that that secret would ruin you should you ever learn it. 

But there really is no escape, and she seems intent beyond all reason to bring you to the depths of hell. Her eyes stay steady on yours, searching for something you feel like you’re hiding, but nothing comes up to say. All that happens is the slow slide of her hand across the hump, stopping only to the center, urging you—tempting you—to meet her in the middle. 

You feel the cheap leather against the skin of your palm. 

She even smells the same.

Her faint citrus scent is just about close enough to the deep notes of rose you’re used to when you were with her. It gets the better of you, distracting and derailing, even as you try your hardest to stay on task. She gives your lower lip a deep suck, the moment she lets go you slip your tongue between her teeth. You’ve said less than twenty words between each other to each other at this point, but you’ve long accepted that words aren’t the currency you want to spend tonight. 

The smoothness of her waist, the smacks of her lips, the grind of her body against yours. It’s perfect as perfect can be, nothing at all like what you were trying to run away from—

This isn’t her. 

Shove the thought away, dive deeper into the kiss. You pin her against the sofa cushions, and she parts her legs for you. There’s not even the split-second reprieve to pull her panties off, only skin-against-cloth-against-skin keeping you from the next addiction you could actually lose yourself in this time—

This isn’t her. 

Trail kisses down to her neck, settle over her pulse. The heat between you, inside her, is undeniable. She wants this; you want this; it’s perfect. She tries so hard to pull your shirt off of you, flimsy buttons and cheap textiles be damned, taking more and more and more—

This isn’t her. 

You have to break away. Breathless and wordless, you back off, right next to her on the sofa. Half-naked is an understatement, distant is a laughable injustice to the thought. The truth is that you’ve never been less vulnerable than right now, never been farther away from anyone in the world. You pant shamefully, same as her, as you both stare off into the ceiling of beige and cream. 

“Running?” It comes out in a voice you don’t even recognize yet you know has to be yours. You don’t dare look at her, instead settling on the imagination of her face flushed, hair a mess, straps of her bra unceremoniously slipped off her shoulders, legs spread just right in case a lover would come by and be who or what she needs tonight. Not you, no way in hell would it be you. 

“What gave it away?” Her reply is strange. You understand perfectly, the attempt to hide something that was sorely, hellishly, severely obvious right from the start. She lets out a dry chuckle, and in that moment you can feel not a searing heat, but a low and measly warmth over the back of your hand. Her fingers dance gently around yours before occupying the spaces in between, and in that moment, you were naked. 

Somehow or other, you could never know, you take another short drag of the cigarette. It scratches down your throat and leaves itchy drops of that invasive high-end tobacco in its wake, and you all but cough your lungs out to try and rid yourself of the irritation. But it doesn’t work.

You hand it back to her, and she takes a drag as well. The way she does it is borderline magic, smooth as can be: raising the tiny stick to her lips, closing them around the butt, sucking in gently like you could never do so. The cloud of light gray smoke that follows is the stuff of beauty, but all you can think about is the mystery behind the eyes.

“Tell me about her,” she says in the flattest tone you’ve ever heard from a human. You take back the cigarette, and try to put theory to practice after seeing the master at work. The bout of coughing still comes, but you see the appeal now: it’s a warm fuzzy feeling in your chest and the center of your head once the nicotine enters your bloodstream. Tingles run up and down your arms when you attempt what all the cool kids on TV do and let out the smoke from your nostrils. She laughs.

“She was like you. Not as tall, not as quiet.” You take another drag, accidentally finishing the last of the cigarette. The ashes fall onto your shirt—only draped over your tummy now, same as hers—and the cursory look back to her reveals her nod that signals you to toss the still-smoking butt right onto the floor. “But… she was like you.”

She fishes out another cigarette, wills it to life with one swift flick of her fancy vintage lighter, hands it to you. She does so again, for her this time, and she keeps it between her lips, keeps her eyes to the ceiling. “You can’t say she was like me then leave it at the ways we were different.”

Each suck comes easier. “I guess not. Let’s see…” and you finally, really look at her. You take in her features one by one, seeing her for the first time properly, away from the booze, sharpened by the tobacco, unbiased by the citrus scent that seems to follow her regardless. “You have the same eyes. Same face. And by that I mean, you’re beautiful.”

“Thanks,” she giggles, forcing two streaks of smoke out of her nose in harsh puffs. “You know I’ll let you in my pants even if you didn’t sweet talk me, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What else?”

“You’re… intimidating. Like everything I do around you is wrong. Like no matter what you see, you’ll judge me.”

“This girl seems pretty fucked up.”

At that, you fight down the urge, fight down your arm back to your side. Why should you do anything, if it was true? And besides, you were never the type to hit a lady, until…

She finishes your thought, “You hit her.”

Silence.

“You’re a fucking asshole. You really are a goddamn, motherfucking, piece-of-shit asshole.” Each word stings, only because, or especially because, each one is true. 

“Yeah. You should probably kick me out of your house right now.”

“Mhm.” She takes another drag. So do you. 

Gentle as gentle gets. Your lips meet hers, soft and eager despite all the hesitance in yours. You try to put the trembling aside, not knowing if it’s you or her anymore, as your fingers find purchase in the skin of her waist. Just one quick peek, one you can’t afford even if you wanted to, shows you that her eyes are closed too, savoring a moment you can’t ever know for certain is real or not. Through it all—her arms gingerly placed on your shoulders, her breath shaking against your lip, her eyes hidden behind covers you could never breach—you try so hard to focus on the here and now, the girl before you, trusting you with a night where everything went wrong. 

Your spent cigarette butts scattered around the sofa, some still clinging to their final embers. Somewhere underneath them are your clothes and hers, no doubt singeing from the light contact, undoubtedly leaving permanent damage, and yet you let them be. 

This isn’t her. She’s too hungry, too forgiving to be yours. The way her hand settles on the side of your neck as if she wants to keep you close, the way she doesn’t push away from the hold you have on her. It’s all too different.

The sun is up now, yet you’re still stuck in limbo with this girl who’s much too familiar yet not familiar at all. You’ve stayed huddled up with her, under a fluffy fleece blanket over ruined cushions, making out or fucking or God-knows-what, and the worst part is you could have left. Could have said something. Could have asked her name. 

But you didn’t. You don’t. 

She pulls away, but keeps her eyes shut like she’s in bliss. She motions you to lie beside her, and you wrap your arm around her thin body. 

“You wouldn’t hit me, would you?”

“Would you believe me if I said I wouldn’t?”

There’s a sad smile that reaches her eyes, a giggle that shows teeth stained black from much too much tobacco. Her thumb caresses your cheek ever so gently, as if washing away sins she had everything to do with. This isn’t her. 

Try as you might, you never muster the courage to say the words. You never do get to apologize to her for everything you did, everything you didn’t do. All those anniversaries you missed, all those swings you didn’t. She wouldn’t have forgiven you, too. 

But this isn’t her. You can try.

“What was he like?”

Her face sours at that, like you’ve personally offended her clan. The gradual fade of her smile kills you, but you know there was no other way to bridge the gap between you and her. She turns away, facing the backrest of the couch, but she brings your hand with her. She places it over her breast, one quick squeeze, and then settles to clutching it with both hands, making sure you couldn’t get away without waking her. She snuggles further into your embrace and scooches so that her entire back is right up against you, and before you know it, she’s already snoring. 

“You’ll never be him. I’ll never love you like I loved him.”

And you accept that. 

Saturday nights are God-made and heavensent—the difference is you let go of control. Your slumber is interrupted by a barfight gone awry, headed right for you. The overhead lights disorient you, and the blacks and whites and grays mix behind your eyelids. But the difference is she feels it too. She lifts her head off your shoulder with a start, nearly bumping her crown onto the bottom of your chin, before she rubs her eyes and settles into a calmer state once you and she both get your bearings. 

It’s not a big deal, not a ceremony in any sense of the word. You tug on the string hanging from inside the lampshade, and the light dies out following the satisfying click of the switch. The way she stretches next to you puts the slightest bit of pressure on the now-clean couch cushion, before settling back as she fishes out the remote and turns the TV off and the barfight along with it. 

You watch her rub her eyes, in that way you’ve seen a hundred times before now: clumsy, harsh, and digging her knuckles way too firmly into her eyelids, and you remind yourself to wean her off of the habit. All you’re doing is passing time—you agreed with this girl who looks too familiar to be good for you—knowing this transaction is flimsy, impermanent, would shatter like glass if you so much as breathed wrong in her general direction. And yet, here she is, and here you are. Lie to yourself that you moved on all you like. 

“I’m,” she yawns, “I’m sorry.”

She’ll never be her.

“Me too, Yu—Sooin.” You stop yourself just in time. “Let’s go to bed.”