I didn't ask you to wish for me. Penny said she tried to warn you, but you wouldn't listen and went ahead and did it anyway: a wrinkled wish, prickled like a cactus with good intentions. Such a wish could never bring good. Such a wish could only ever smother itself under the weight of its own sincerity.
I've always found your elbows objectionable. Too lumpy. I would stare at them and fantasise about exfoliating pads and intensive moisturisers. Not that I ever told you. When you love someone, you keep some things to yourself.
I didn't want your wrinkly wish that I never asked for. What could you have known of my heart's desires? I don't even know half of them myself. Could you have known that the death of the dog next door would bring me more joy than I'd ever confess, or that if I stranger had stopped me in the street and asked to take my photograph, I'd have hoarded the memory like treasure? Of course not. These are the things I keep folded down next to my objections about your elbows.
What I shared was air - true wishes are fire. They're visceral, dripping with id. Not the kind of thing you go spitting out of your mouth at the people you love.
You made your wish with the most terrible thing of all: altruism. It's the secret ingredient, the white truffle of the wisher's kitchen. But you used it. You used it on the only wish I'll ever get a shot at and you used it on something that was more a want than a wish. Wasted.
My lack of gratitude seemed to surprise you. I tried to feign more. I even tried to conjure up the real thing. But somehow it all came out hollow. I could hear it myself. The words echoed back on themselves and you smiled and pretended not to notice. Then you left, taking your lumpy elbows with you.
I wish - really wish, not just want - that you had died rather than left me willingly. These are not the types of things one likes to admit.
A wish was made on my behalf and it came true. I got something I'd wanted but not wished for. It was a squandered wish and now it's gone. Granted and gone.
I didn't ask you to wish for me.
You didn't ask me to wish for you. Penny tried to warn me, but I wouldn't listen and went ahead and did it anyway. A bubbled wish, swollen like a pregnant belly with naive intention. Such a wish could never harm. Such a wish could only ever foil itself with its own gleeful ignorance.
I've always abhorred the way you drink your coffee. I would watch your tongue flick round the lip of the mug and fantasise about slamming it into your face with my hand. Not that I ever told you. When you love someone, you keep some things to yourself.
You didn't ask for the wish. I didn't want you to have to. I know more of your heart's desires than you think you do. I know that you would have thrown yourself under a train if it would have brought your sister back, and that a compliment on your looks secretly meant more to you than ten on your talents. But I let you have them. I kept my knowledge of them folded down next to my abhorrence of your coffee-drinking ways.
What you shared was fire - true wishes are air. They're ethereal, speckled with soul. They leave you too breathless to spit out of your mouth at anyone.
I made the wish with the most wonderful thing of all: sincerity. It's the secret ingredient, the buttered base of the wish maker's baking tray. Its rarity is why so few wishes come true. But I used it. I used it on the only wish I ever made and it worked.
Your lack of gratitude surprised me. Your hollow words thanks composed of letters and empty eyes. You tried to feign it, but even that seemed to pain you. Not only were you not grateful, you didn't want me to think you were. So I left, smashing your coffee cup on the way out.
I wish - really wish, not just want - that you had died rather than found me lacking. These are not the types of things one likes to admit.
A wish was made on your behalf and it came true. You got something I wished for you, whether you wished it for yourself or not. You squandered my wish and now it's gone. Granted and gone.
You didn't ask me to wish for you.
She didn't ask him to wish for her. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen and went ahead and did it anyway. A desperate wish, vapid like monotone in its own futility. Such a wish could never save anything. Such a wish could only ever whimper under the weight of things that shouldn't be.
I always loathed the way they would lock feet with each other under the table. As if I wouldn't notice. They would arouse each other with nudges and glances, including me in the conversation whilst excluding me from their internal reality. I wanted to kick them both. Not that I ever told them. When you love people, you keep some things to yourself.
She didn't ask for his wish and she didn't want it once she got it. Neither of them knew the first thing about a heart's true desires. They had no clue what it was like to be the external party, around but never truly included. To want to reign down mortar on the contentment of others in the hopes of creating a kindred from the rubble. But these are the thoughts I kept folded down next to my loathing of their under the table foot games.
She offered fire, he gave her air. True wishes are water. They're relentless, gravid with clam determination. You can spit them out of your mouth all you like, they'll only refill you.
I made my wish with the most potent thing of all: loneliness. It's the secret ingredient, the premium meat of the wish maker's pottage. The despair it incurs is why so few wishes are ever made in its name. But when they are, those wishes are the most powerful of all. They drown any other wishes in their path.
Her lack of gratitude surprised him. I think it surprised her too. But not me. My shoulder was there. She tried to feign it, he tried to pretend he couldn't see through the cracks. I nodded and offered tea. Then he left, and their feet were too far away from each other to play any more under the table games.
I wish - really wish, not just want - that they stay lonely. Separate from all but me; inclusive in their individual despair. These are not the types of things one likes to admit.
A wish was made and it came true. I will not waste a morsel of it.