Damn, He Can't Compare

9. dusk

June 16th, 1986. Curt's and my house. 6:39 P.M.

Under the pre-dusk sky in the backyard of our house, I laid on the grass, listening to the sounds of birds chirping in the trees and the feeling of warm air turning colder. The yard was filled with an otherworldly thought process, smothering myself in the regret of today.

I had raced home after the incident and came straight out here. I couldn't remember the exact time, but I knew that Curt was inside, coming home after work and calling out my name. He half called my name, then trailed off at the back door, seeing me lying there.

I could feel the weight of his stare on me like standing on my chest, that's how much it hurt to know he had no idea. He ambled over to me with a cheeky smile, before kneeling down on the grass next to me. He laid back, our heads touched as we both stared up at the twisting cotton clouds in the sky. 

He tilts his head to look at me, his eyes trail over the shape of my nose and lips, then back up to my blue eyes, "I know something is up." He says, I snap my head to him, tension built in my shoulders, could he know about Roland and me?

"You're nervous about the tour, aren't you?" he said, I fell back into place, he had no idea. I nod softly, parting my lips with a breath, I couldn't even look at him in the face, "It's just the distance, that's all." I lied through my teeth.

"You'll be with me the entire time." His soft hand entwines with mine, as he shakes it up in the air. I didn't deserve his kindness, I didn't deserve anything, "Let's go inside and order some food." 

He lifted himself off the ground, and extended a hand for me, he lifts me up as well. As we walk back inside, he has one arm over my shoulder. I wonder if he can feel the imprint of fear through my skin.