He knew the feeling. He only thought about her and the world got brighter, smells sharper, tastes sweeter. It wasn’t just the drugs. She made him think in possibilities. He was done with considering himself as afflicted; he had a gift other people wrote stories about, and a girlfriend who was brave and ridiculously pretty, and he had music, and most of the time his apartment had electricity.
Brian picked up a long lock of Valerie’s hair. The end of it tapered and curled, and he could’ve sworn that tiny sparks flew from it. He grinned stupidly and touched the hair to her nose. “Hey, sparkplug, wanna see something?”
He had been practicing. He had gone to the library and checked out all books about meditation and mental focus. Over the course of three days, he spread them open on his living room floor and drank only water as he pored over their contents, making notes in a spiral-bound book and chewing pencils until they splintered. Every night since, he tried it, and only when he felt calm did he attempt to move things.
It was hard – maybe the hardest thing he’d ever done – but he was getting better. “Wait a minute…” Brian’s fingers dove into her pockets in search of the guitar pick, and if he took his time feeling around, that was legitimate. “It’s around here somewhere.” When his fingers alighted on the pick, he held it up between their faces.
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He knew the feeling. He only thought about her and the world got brighter, smells sharper, tastes sweeter. It wasn’t just the drugs. She made him think in possibilities. He was done with considering himself as afflicted; he had a gift other people wrote stories about, and a girlfriend who was brave and ridiculously pretty, and he had music, and most of the time his apartment had electricity.
Brian picked up a long lock of Valerie’s hair. The end of it tapered and curled, and he could’ve sworn that tiny sparks flew from it. He grinned stupidly and touched the hair to her nose. “Hey, sparkplug, wanna see something?”
He had been practicing. He had gone to the library and checked out all books about meditation and mental focus. Over the course of three days, he spread them open on his living room floor and drank only water as he pored over their contents, making notes in a spiral-bound book and chewing pencils until they splintered. Every night since, he tried it, and only when he felt calm did he attempt to move things.
It was hard – maybe the hardest thing he’d ever done – but he was getting better. “Wait a minute…” Brian’s fingers dove into her pockets in search of the guitar pick, and if he took his time feeling around, that was legitimate. “It’s around here somewhere.” When his fingers alighted on the pick, he held it up between their faces.