Broken Beam

Okay, ultimately I want to cut this down to a third of the size in "flash-fiction" format, but I need feedback on whether it is remotely intelligible or stomach-able as it stands.

Is it too stream-of-consciousness? Too melodramatic? Too boring, etc?

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She stood there eyeing the cross, glossing the walls, counting the colors of the window panes. Twenty minutes, brunch, the drive.
It was overwhelming, how the hollow hungry feeling in her stomach spread frenzied into her extremities, butting against the walls of her body, filling her with an shaky, liquid confusion. I can’t move, but every inside of me is trying to find its way out.
The words of the singer float over her head, the warm breath of the woman behind her slides around her neck, up behind her ears. Warmth meets cold shivers, like the park, where her stupid shoes cut her toes, and he stopped with her. On a curb, warmth enveloping her bare legs, they sat together, watching cars go by. Laughing so hard that the sharp air sprinted down her throat stabbing into her lungs, collapsing them with its fist. She started uncontrollably coughing, and sat there thinking how poorly she’d performed.
Then she is the only one standing, and her neck is again exposed to the cold excitement of before. She thrusts herself into her pew, flushed, sanguinity crawling up her neck into her cheeks, spreading under her eyes, while a little girl smile unconsciously spreads with heat across her face.
And he thought it was cute, and told her not to be embarrassed, but everyone was looking. And she hadn’t slept all night. And the pale buds he handed her looked silly next to her red-rose face, but he took her hand and led her into the hallway, and jets of touch ran from her hand through her arms and legs, finally icing her warm red cheeks into a human pink. His arm led her eyes from their hands to his face, which had acquired her same silly smile. They both laughed at the slow buzz of the other girls, and she knew part of her was withering away.
As she leaves her pew, she neither genuflects nor crosses herself. She can never give herself to its walls. They need too much, and give too little, and she laughs at her own melodrama, When did I become so like him? If anybody ever heard me talking about souls and religion...
You are so guarded. These aren’t trivial, silly things. They’re very real. He pushed himself up on his elbows, she laughed at him, and he rolled to look at her, One day this whole thing is going to fall down around you... And will it have been worth it?
WHAT are you talking about? You are so ridiculous. She was laughing again, spastically, dramatically. He got up, I love you. I want to love Just you. Not a version of you. I want you, and that makes me weak to you. Fine, and he walked around so that she had to look at him. As he continued to button his shirt, he never looked away from her, we can do this, but not forever. When he turned and left, she watched him walk away, and a soft pain rolled through her. It rammed against her skin and muscles trying to break its way out, trying to find something that could manage it. She ignored its pleas, instead believing it weakness, and laughed at the strange things people think are acceptable.
As the wind buffets her face, beating her back into the present, she watches the people walking out together. She watches families getting into their cars, and a young boy who pulls at the collar of his dress shirt whenever his mother turns away. She continues on, she has a brunch, and then the drive.
She arrives at her father’s steps, ready to make familiar conversation with the neighbors. She mutes her interior and spreads a forced, though natural appearing smile across her face. The brunch passes quickly and easily, as neighbors inquire about her new job and apartment. They tell her how she so reminds them of her mother. She exits at the most appropriate and opportune time. Only then does her mind stop looping a constant reel of pleasant conversation, and returns to him.
Three hours left until she arrives at his door. Three hours alone in her car. She turns on the radio, echoing attention as she sings along. Songs fade into three or four, commercials slip in unnoticed while the tires pull her further down the road. Reds and oranges race by her, dismal sickly raindrops slide down and sideways across her windshield. She thinks of last autumn, just as it ended and the cold began again.
Exhausted she opened her apartment door, stripped off her sweatshirt and stretched while playing her messages. Three of unimportance. One– her father meekly telling her to call, it was about her mother. Her lungs instantly realized the pain of the cold air as they pumped and seized with recognition.
Locked in her room, sitting in her closet she was safe from being seen. He called and called, and came and left. Finally, he let himself in, intending to wait. Not wanting to explain, not wanting him to see her cowering in her closet, still sweaty and scared she panicked and in moving she knocked a coat onto the floor. Outed, she stood up, rapidly calculating how to make it look as if she had simply been sleeping. She opened the closet door to find him standing just outside, concerned but confused. Her hair matted to her neck with sweat and dried tears, reddened eyes and pallor consumed skin gave her away. She fell on him, and embarrassed and afraid she cried for her loss. He pulled her onto the ground and held her, and took down her hair, and sat silently. He did not coax her or shush or rock her. He sat stable trying, but knowing it impossible, to absorb her pain.
And finally, when her mind’s pain had ravaged her muscles and organs with its manifestations; she lay, quietly asleep, looking at him for the first time.
When she awoke she retained a visceral taste of shame, and loss, but under the degradation was a strength not yet known, and at that instant expanding.
She turns onto his street, waiting to see him. Waiting to hold him, and laugh with him, and lose a little of herself with him. She is now broken, and mended, and weakened perhaps beyond measure. But these new cracks shed light, and if the edifice were to crumble completely, and the stage lights fade, they would yield to nothing more than the pain and light and warmth that is breaking open.