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THE ONLY REAL THING
Elizabeth doesn't think she'll ever get used to this, to
her hands on Gretchen's body, her lips on her skin, fingers curled in her hair.
To devouring each other in grief, on the floor of Donnie's wrecked bedroom, on
the couch while Gretchen's mother sleeps off her pills, in the backseat of
Elizabeth's ex-boyfriend's car, while he sits on the hood and smokes, looking
out at the lights of the town. They've both lost something, her and Gretchen.
They understand each other. They both taste like tears and blood, they both
have scars that belong to other people.
Sometimes Elizabeth feels like she shouldn't be doing this. Not because of the
gay thing, not because Gretchen's just a kid. Sometimes it feels like Elizabeth
is just filling this role for someone else, like someone else is supposed to be
kissing Gretchen, touching her, leaving bite marks on the pale shoulders that
she covers with her clean white school shirt. Sometimes it feels like its
Donnie who should be doing this, falling in love with Gretchen, and Elizabeth
should still be in love with Frank.
But Donnie is dead, and Frank is strange and quiet, and sometimes Gretchen
feels like the only real thing in Elizabeth's hands.
For Fox.
END
