Nilesta (nilesta) wrote in vignettes,

Soft, The Midnight Hours

Let your eyes adjust, as soon they will. The full moon lending everything a silvered air and glinting off the water. There are leeches in the water, and the rocks are too sharp to lie upon, but we can sit here. And we can talk. The bars aren't closed yet, but soon the drunken rednecks will begin assembling on the road above to smoke their weed and do their mating dance in the backs of their pick up trucks.

I'll pass you a beer and you'll flip a rock into the water and the bull frogs will call, sounding suspiciously like ducks in the darkness. I'll cross my legs, you'll stretch yours out, and in soft voices the talk will begin. The talk always begins in soft voices, and ends in softer. In such a place, at such a time, loud voices are grating, overkill on the senses.

You'll talk of your future, and I of my past. You of your friends, and I of my family. And somehow, in the middle, is us, sitting on the sharp rock beech of a dark creek, murmuring. I'll reassure you that you'll find your path, and you'll comfort me that my hard path is nearly at an end. Perhaps the tears will come, but you'll not see my mascara running in the darkness, and the soft breaths could be passed off as sighs.

Maybe you'll turn your face from my wrongs, and maybe I'll put a hand up against your fears. And maybe the rocks won't seem so sharp, the rednecks so loud, the chill so unbearable. I'll put down my cloak for a place to sit, and you'll offer your arms to ward off the chill, and perhaps one of the rednecks will remember they have a house to go to. When it's simply the moon and the water and the rocks and bull frogs and us, maybe words won't seem so important.
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