'A to the K' #A (1st cut of novella length archived work)

The joyless occasion of another friend gone out, a friend slipped from Kanyon’s hands to his head like a factory clickstamp, flesh reduced to memory in a machination imposed upon him and always thickening in a living wall of vine kind of way, and he places his hands solemnly on the book on the table and searches himself the volume of his mind for a question to keep life going inside, to balance the horrible offset, and the balancing act little fun, just a frantic clawing off and on of the knobs besiding the faucet for a bearable temperature in the days of declining water supply. When he came back to the room, there was one thing Kanyon felt in the moment of an unfeeling boy finally and wonderfully feeling… his bare feet in rapture on the hardwood floors of his apartment… alas, just a projection. And so he finished listening politely to the man in the three-piece suit on the subject of his next possession, smiled and turned his back, reached for his Stetson some kind young girl decorated the wall’s hook with, and left that house and its poor old floors under endless night of wall to wall off-white, with some sad song  on his own happy, full lips. Because there was fresh love in his heart for her, Agatha. His best friend’s girlfriend.


I want you Agatha, he wanted to tell her, and which he wanted more was difficult to determine: in the moment he wanted to tell her most,  but in the grande picture he wanted her more than anything he could say to her. Alas, the taboo. One month was not enough.
He held her hands in his, her little hands but strong, and rubbed his thumbprints over her knuckles that had gone through envious girls and bruised them. She was tough. They could not hurt her unless she let them, and no, she wouldn’t feel guilty for bloodying a bitch’s nose. These girls had no heart! She liked most to get them curled up in a ball on the ground holding their sides, so they knew exactly how she felt! And then, she lay her chest down on the ground beside them, down in the dirt where they wept, and said softly, “I’m not going to kick you, I don’t kick people when they’re down!”
And she left them there.
No wasting her time dwelling on what was said and done and gone, either. Only the bruises on her knuckles now faded from red to bluish to purple black and back remembered clearly how that sea of feeling felt. Life was not so clean anymore.
This is what he loved about her, beside simply her name and her knuckles, this wisdom she had or trusting of herself to roll with what happened, whatever at all. This strength of hers, he never knew a girl to have such strength. Strength was not normally what turned him on.
In silence she knew he yearned for her. In silence she guessed, and she knew he could not say. Thus they fell in together... and not unwitnessed by spirits unseen but not unacknowledged - yet still in that electric rush of air up the spine, well, words need not touch this.

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