Purity

The silence ensues for quite some time. After a while, the pause stops feeling angry and starts feeling awkward. I can see that he has something to say to me, as do I, but he waits for me to start. It's a trait that both of us have in common. When it comes to serious matters we prefer to let the other start. This sounds good in theory, since it seems as though both of us will be heard. In practice, well...it means a lot of silence.

He wins. I give in first.

"Why do you despise me so much?"

"I don't despise you." He says it quickly, as though trying to cover something up. I stand up slowly and walk over to the bed. I lean against the mattress, but do not sit down. It's one of the perks of having a bed that's high off the ground; sitting isn't the only option when it comes to making yourself comfortable. I fold my arms and look at him. We are close to the same height now. He's always told me that's not a large accomplishment; Mother is a bit taller than he is, even. I used to look at both of them in the way that young children do when they still believe they will be young forever -- my parents were so much bigger than I was, I could never hope to achieve anything near their height. Now I am nearly as tall as Father is, and thinking about him in still different ways. Ways that, according to him, are abnormal.

His hands move as he leans back slightly, supporting himself. He looks at me as though studying me, and then he says, "Why did you tell me...that?"

I shrug and say "I wanted you to know." It's true, after all. I've always felt strange loving or even lusting after people without them knowing; that's part of the reason I told Blaise that I liked him last year. Granted, he didn't think I was serious and I gave up on him, but it still didn't feel quite so horrid after he knew. I don't know if I assumed that it would be the same way with Father or what, but it wasn't. I don't understand why, but it hurt when he told me to leave the room.

He starts talking to me about Mother then -- about how it's obviously not working, about the late-night disputes that lead into full-blown fights, about her leaving...everything except how unsure he is that everything is going work out. He doesn't have to tell me that.

As suddenly as he began, he is finished. He becomes cold again, falling back into that area of silence and security; if you don't say it, it won't hurt. Ignore it and it will leave, for better or worse.

I can't stand it when he does that. It makes me angry at him, when I know I shouldn't be. Why doesn't he realise what she has been doing to him? He is not a saint or a martyr and I know it, but he seems to believe that she is as pure as snow.

He should stop to consider the large amount of pollution in most snow nowadays.

I stand up, and he does the same. We are done talking for now. It's another trait we have in common -- when it gets too intense, abandon it. Okay, it's not exactly a good way to be. But it works.

He lingers, standing in the center of my room for a few seconds before beginning to leave. I get an impulse to do something crazy; something stupid that I know should never be done.

I do it anyway.

I throw my arms around him and kiss him. On the mouth. Hard.

It feels strange, kissing him. At the same time, it provides an immense thrill that hasn't been equaled in anything I've ever experienced before.

He freezes as my lips meet his. He wasn't expecting this. I know this; it's why I did it now. He wouldn't allow me otherwise.

He doesn't hold me, but he doesn't push me away, either. I kiss him with all the passion I've been feeling towards him -- all the times I've looked at him and wondered what this would be like; all the times that I've awakened at three in the morning panting and flushed; all the times I've seen him kiss Mother, seen him kiss her like this, and wanted it to be me that he loved...

I start to pull away from him, and he does something that surprises me. He puts his hand on my back and pushes me back against his chest. I never thought that he would like it; I figured he would push me away. But instead he is kissing me back. And for one crazy moment, life is good again.

We pull away from each other eventually, and he turns and leaves the room.

Mother is home.

I know what will happen -- the same thing that always happens. He'll take her back and she'll stay for awhile, only to leave us again. I'm not sure if she'll leave us for good one day; I don't think it really matters. I will always have that one fleeting moment in which everything was perfect. I don't think it was quite the same for him as it was for me, but it's still there. Even when I go downstairs and look Mother in the face, I can see him looking at me out of the corner of my eye. It's one of the things that she will never know about. Something that no one else will know.

He knows, and I know. Nothing Mother does can rip it from us. And I get the feeling that both of us find a strange sort of comfort in that. Moments like that may only happen once in a lifetime, but sometimes that's everything you need.