She looked at him, smiling because she would not frown. She knew her patterns now. She doodled on the table, knowing the demons were back, that she had handed her life over without even trying.
She let him kiss her forehead, hold her, like she was his, though she knew he was not hers. Nights like these were strange; in the confusion, in the whiskey, in the closeness, in the darkness, she felt all the questions of her existence hanging in the air. There was a God she wanted to believe in, but she knew, knew He was slipping away from her in these moments. She knew she must seek some sort of answers, but she knew she could also choose silence, silence from this moment; silence in this moment. And she was angry; angry and at peace.
Angry at unrelated things, like the oppression of a course of life she was forced to take to make Africa proud; clean sharp suits, a degree she did not care for and big English. She could not lie she hated the English, but she would not ever wear the suit. She was angry at how this somehow seemed to aggravate the anxiety of the moment. She, at this moment, was even angry at the poverty of her father, imposed and self-imposed. She was angry at the fact that the landlord was about to ask for the rent. And then she was angry at related things, like why she could not understand, neatly sort out the many things she felt.
At peace, because she knew she would do this wrong; it was necessary in a strange way; at peace, in the way one surrenders and chooses to smile at their death; a death before a resurrection one was not quite sure they would have.
She did not have answers, but she knew one day she would. For now, she took his hand and surrendered to what she could not control.