Fear and Trembling
Jenni Paulsen
We're sitting in his room alone,
I on the corner of his bed-both feet on the floor, back rigid, hands folded.
He in the cheap, plastic desk-chair that came with the room-feet on the bed, arm
draped over the back.
The day outside is hot and oppressive but his air conditioner is working overtime so I'm shivering
And we're talking about Soren Kirkegaard and existentialism I think,
But we may have moved on to summer work schedules,
I don't know anymore because all I notice are his lips moving and the way his eyes linger on mine
then dart away.
He gets up to change the music (did he notice I'm shivering?) then sits on the bed next
to me and I jerk alert again.
The hum of the air clicks and shuts off and that's when I notice he's not talking anymore but looking
at my hand on his bed,
And he's leaning closer so I try to lean closer also but I'm sweaty and frozen in place.
Then I'm staring at his forehead and I am afraid after all so I start to say something
about Kirkegaard but he raises his eyes and I can't even breathe anymore.
Then his lips cover mine for just a moment.
My hand is on his knee and his is on my shoulder and he leans back and looks at me but I don't say
anything so he leans in again and this time it's deeper and he pulls me closer.
(Can he feel that I'm shivering?)
Then we're falling back on the bed in slow motion and I can't believe I'm doing this.
I turn my head to the pillow and push myself up but look him in the eyes
And he looks back with puzzlement,
But he just touches my lips, puts his hand on my knee,
And asks what I think of Kirkegaard's "Fear and Trembling."
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