Ivan Bassett

by **juno** 4/6/2011, 04:49

Written as an attempt at a sort of sequel to a series of texts written by Alicia Lee & I. Ivan was the son of her character creation, Michael.

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It may have been her messy mass of hair that backed Ivan down, he didn’t know. She was standing there, speaking fine words for a sailor. He was just trying to ignore the pounding, the sinking - trying to ignore his chest. She was crying.

“One hell of a charming coward,” she was saying. Spitfire. He couldn’t yell back. He still didn’t know if it was weakness or fear of saying too much and possibly breaking her. At her loudest, she was most vulnerable, at the height of the thunderstorm, the hail-hell and fire, she was frayed. Couldn’t do it, couldn’t do it, he backed down. Said goodbye, left. He couldn’t lie, he looked back a thousand times before closing the door, but that may be irrelevant.

She loved him.

Now, four years later, she slept parallel to him. The face of a child lathered in old calendars and melted candles. She was fully clothed, frustrated, proud, asleep. He couldn’t fuck her, four years later. Just like he couldn’t yell all those years ago, now he couldn’t move. He began to think she was his paralysis, his disease. He couldn’t fuck her but he couldn’t let her walk out the door. The reason:

If he fucked her, he would make love to her.

If he made love to her, he would break down.

She was his only reason to break down.

He’d never be ready to have anybody do that to him.

Ever.

Breathed in. One, two. Three. Four, to make it even. He glanced at her. Skin, pores, marks, bumps and imperfections. Five. Six.

“I’ve always liked your back best,” she murmured, under sleep and cover.

He left the room.