I am taking your hand; we are in the middle of the street. There are leaves on the ground; I hold my converse in one hand, fingers gripping the laces and the backs of the shoes, and walk barefoot. The ground is cold, especially the places where blacktop shows through between the leaves. I glance down. The ground is a darker than average gray, turned almost black by the rain. My feet are pale, soft on the tops, hardened and callused on the bottoms. I let my toes run over the edges of orange, red, green, brown, black - moss and grass and leaves and dirt and blacktop. The bruises on my feet blend in, and the moisture caresses, and the cold bites my bones with gnawing angry teeth.
The cold is just trying to find its place. It is not really angry; it just feels that way, because it is more determined - more forward - stronger than I am used to. It wants inside me, because inside is where the heat is, and cold calls out to the heat, trying to be friends. Heat turns its back and runs away. Heat dances in the window, lace only half-obscuring the curves of her sultry figure. She smiles through the glass, the candles creating that sense of movement around her figure even as she stands still. She then takes a step forward. She is right on the other side - they are only separated by a thin pane of sheer rules and lack of communication. Cold shivers, wrapping arms around shoulders, tasting icy coconut on his breath. He does a half turn - about to walk on, and then catches sight of Heat again. Heat is the smell of sweat, cinnamon and butter and a walk of confidence, in strong shoes. Heat is spinning, hair hiding her nakedness. Heat is laughing, feet pointing in stockings, inside with flames licking at her bare breasts. She is pain and pleasure and as Cold trembles once more, Heat puts her palm on the glass, fingers outstretched.
My fingers wrap around yours, and I pull you closer.
I am drinking coconut on a Monday. Mondays are the worst. They are so far from Fridays, that I feel my stomach hurt. I am over the nervousness that used to destroy me, eating away at my appetite, leaving me laying on my living room floor - hungry, waiting for Saturdays when the crunch of toast and the salty taste of butter are once more present. But now I find the food is there, waiting for me, tangible. Coconut milk is sweet at the back of my throat, but not sugary enough to activate the angry whirling gremlin that lives in the back of my head, feeds off of chocolate, and causes momentary bouts of beautiful insanity.
Sometimes, I tease him, baiting him with a bite of cake. Raspberry dark chocolate and he is creeping from the web where he resides, to grow in strength and power until he is dancing down and out of my eyes, along the curve of my nose - and up into my hair, pulling on each wavy lock as he dances with tap shoes on my skull. He makes a racket, and it hurts, but I laugh. He is a worthwhile companion on the lonely Monday evenings.
It is almost sad that I have made friends with my migraine in such a fashion. But he is so beautiful, as he dances in his rainbow cape, that I am utterly seduced. I lay back, close my eyes, and he leads me around and around. Was he once a short munchkin lurking in the back of my conscious? Now he is a tall dark stranger, and we are holding hands - finger tip to finger tip - an intricate waltz with lyrics and fear and respect. I am falling harder than I imagined. As the world falls down around me, he holds us up.
When I wake, it is Friday afternoon, and I am bedecked with lace. This outfit is new. I wake up in a strange room, the walls are blue - and the sky is barely visible through the tiny window. The walls are bending down to kiss my cheeks as they wake me, and I glance at the clock. I am late! 8:01, and I am running out the door, outwards and onwards, and the dark stranger is nothing more than the lustful tremor in my stomach and the slowly disappearing ache in my temples.
I am ready to dance once more. My feet hammer their way down the streets, as I let myself run. Running is strange. My lungs expand and contract, and this is all the past - and none of the present. I am flying free. I am stronger than you'd imagine. I am turning cartwheels as a shadow in the wet grass, the closed daisies open up their eyes at midnight to join in the fun. All is as it should be.