Suburban Confessional- Part 3

Despite appearance Austin is not my partner in this equation, with maybe the exception of housemate, best friend and very competent lover. Our relationship is one which is hard to define. Lover would be a term with too looser connotations yet boyfriend would be too, well, committed. Yes we do sleep together when the need arises, but this isn’t something which we like to have published to the world. Our little sexual escapades are something we have chosen to keep to ourselves. Technically speaking neither of us has actually been able to commit to any descent form of non maladjusted relationships for years and finding ourselves alone in a house with one another with built up sexual frustrations, sleeping together would seem the most logical and sensible routes to solving our mutual problems. This is the moralist and logical reason behind our sordid relationship, the less polite and rational reason would be that we both are in need of a good fuck and we are more than happy to provide that when the urge arises. This may seem slightly immoral but consider this, most people who are in relationships complain of one of two things. Either the sex is great and the person is an asshole or the person is great but sleeping with them is like sleeping with Martha Stewart. In our case, we get along brilliantly, there is no after sex awkwardness and if we want to fuck someone else there isn’t that guilt involved. 1

That’s my justification for it anyways and I choose to stick to it. 2

I quietly lie with my eyes half open, secretly watching him throwing his heart onto a canvas I can’t help but look beyond the lost soul and see the man who I know.3

Despite our seemingly callous relationship my feelings for Austin are not completely nonchalant. After being in a person’s pockets for a long time it’s virtually impossible to not grow a deeper form of attachment to them. Austin to me is truly like no one I had ever met. To say in my life that I have had many friends would be, to a degree, somewhat untrue. I have never really been able to trust many people. Not through lack of trying but once the world screws you over one too many times you begin to believe that trust is a pointless endeavor. Ironically Austin does not trust either. Maybe it’s because of this lack of expectations we have grown so close. I guess when you expect everyone to hurt you at some point when you find someone who shows you an unconditional loyalty you are so shocked by this that the bond that is formed becomes seemingly unbreakable. Seemingly being the operative word.4

“Good Morning my little crippled friend” Austin doesn’t even look away from the canvas as he asks me. Slowly I creep up, blanket entwined, from the now disheveled couch; “How the hell do you do that?” 5

He turns around, tucks his brush behind his ear creating a black drip down his cheek and smiles. “Now Miss that would be telling, and besides no man could not help but to feel your acid stare,” For a moment there was an expecting silence as he looked at me with his own powerful stare as if he was looking straight through me, studying my soul. Had I done something, not done something? 6

Then I see that lost boy disappointment in his eyes and I knew exactly what it was. Slowly, blanket behind me, I dragged myself up of the well worn couch and wander past him to his canvas. As usual it is a swirling mess of black and grey strokes, thrown about the surface in a way that only he seems to understand. His paintings had become increasingly dark of late. When we first met he drew what he called internal portraits, how people look inside and not the image they project to the outside world. It always scared me that the day would come when he painted me. Thankfully I have yet to truly see what Austin believes me to look like because quite frankly even I don’t know what I look like beyond the surface. But now all he seems to be painting is swirls of black or monochrome pictures of desolate landscapes and lost souls. It worried me a lot but Austin is Austin and to criticize his art work would be like tearing out his soul and stomping on it. And I could never do that to him. I need him too much.7

“Is it a fish?” I smile cheekily back at him. I can see the concern and the vulnerability slowly fade from his eyes as a smile breaks across his face. 8

“Don’t be a smart ass Evie,” he smirked flicking paint from his brush into my face. I hadn’t realized how close he was actually standing next to me, “it’s obviously a chicken.” As I wipe the paint from my face I see past his smiles and realize what I need to say to him. Austin, although creating an aura of complete apathy to the human race, does care what you think. Beyond his cold exterior is that little boy who is dying for some kind of kind word, a sweet loving acknowledgement. Just like the rest of the lost souls. To look at him you would never know, but I don’t look at him, I see.9

“I like it.” 10