The Crack

You know how sometimes, you just get so tired that your eyes fixate on a crack in the floor, and you fill your whole consciousness with the crack and every old piece of wood it's made with and every speck of dust near it, and you wish you were watching the world creep by from the crack instead of your chair, or room, or whomever's arms you've been hiding in lately? It's warm, dark, and inviting-a perfect place to hide from reality.

There's one crack in my floor that is always growing larger. Someday, I'm sure I'll just fall in.

I first noticed the crack about a year ago, on a rainy night in November. It was the night of my seventeenth birthday, around midnight, after my other friends had left. Marc decided to stay for awhile; he had brought a movie we hadn't had time to watch.

The television hummed and rain pounded on the roof and on the windows until sometime around one o'clock, we started hearing the rolls of thunder convulse through the skies. The power flicked off, so we laughed nervously and looked at each other. In the darkness, we lit a few candles and opened the blinds to sit back and watch the storm for awhile. The view was spectacular.

Lightning was entrancing, and watching Marc's soft, orange, candlelit face flash blue the moment lightning struck drew me further into the trance. The minutes and seconds ran together like raindrops into puddles, and the thunder did not interrupt my train of thought. Directed by a brain determined not to reveal anything it was thinking, my eyes fixated on my hands for what seemed like forever, the orange and blue disappearing into gentle shadows and lines.

I guess I nodded off at one point, because I don't remember falling asleep. I awoke-minutes, seconds later?-and my head was on Marc's shoulder. He gently stroked my hair.

I jolted awake, embarrassed. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry. I'm so tired," I desperately tried to explain.

"It's all right," he said, guiding my head back to his shoulder.

It was eerie for a moment, but I hesitantly complied. His shoulder was comfortable, and it felt so nice to be there.

"I kind of like having it there," he said softly after a few minutes. I didn't get up again, but the statement preoccupied me to sleeplessness.

"Hmm?" I asked. I tried to appear neither eager nor dismayed. At this early juncture, you can't throw in emotions.

He paused for awhile. "I kind of like having you there."

I had never really considered Marc more than a friend. My mind tends to flip through the index card files of people I know to consider or reject them for such things, but I hadn't thoughtfully considered his yet. To have some sort of expected decision on the matter unexpected thrust upon me was unnerving.

I brought a lightning-streaked hand to my mouth and nervously bit my thumbnail. He remained still, stroking my hair. Another flash of lightning streaked us blue, and the thunder chortled again over the dull roar of dancing rain.

After awhile, he calmly asked, "Well?" I could tell he had been waiting for me to make some sort of reply for quite some time, but I didn't have one, so I just squeezed closer. It felt so nice, and he pulled me closer, too.

"That's what I thought," he said. As nice as it felt on the outside, I almost felt sick inside.

At some point, he leaned over and kissed my head. I turned, surprised, and quizzically looked up at him. He just smiled, a dimple perking up one side of his mouth. "Awake?" he asked.

I swallowed and blinked hard. "Mmm, yeah," I replied, trying to smile.

"Good." He leaned closer.

It was weird; I felt impelled to lean closer, too, so I did. It was almost as though I expected what was about to happen.

He kissed me again, this time on the lips. I kissed back, self-consciously and nervously. His lips pressed, soft and wet, against my cold, dry lips. He tasted of recently swallowed pizza. I can't help but think of what people have eaten when I'm kissing them. The sweet scent of softly burning candles, however, allowed me some pleasantry. I'm afraid the kissing wasn't very good. It's never really all that good if you're not completely engaged in the act; at least, that's always been my experience.

I don't want you to think that after that, he took advantage of me or anything like that. Anything that happened from there was mutual, although not much happened. That was mostly my fault.

We kissed a little while longer, and it got kind of nice to have that closeness and warmth. It wasn't magical or anything, though. I didn't fill with joy or wish he'd never leave; it was more of a hesitant enjoyment. I was disengaged enough to notice the storm calming and watch one candlewick meet its demise. And I saw the crack appear on the floor as the first hints of dawn crept in through the window.

After a few minutes of gazing at the crack, I couldn't continue to feign interest in kissing any longer, and carefully forced myself up. "I'm sorry, Marc, it's really late . . . err, early . . .and I need to sleep."

"Would you like me to leave?" he offered, looking slightly disappointed.

"Yes. I'm sorry," I sighed.

I showed him to the door, walking very sloppily in my sleeplessness. He gave me a kiss before he walked away and thanked me for allowing him to stay so long. "Good night," I said, and shut the door. I sighed again and staggered tiredly off to my room to sleep for hours.

It was only later that I really reconsidered my earlier thoughts, swirling Marc and relationships and lightning and warm shoulders. I still couldn't decide whether or not I liked it, any of it. I didn't want to deal with it, either. It was then that the crack began to seem inviting.

(from AP English 12)