If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance.
We walked under the boardwalk lights – barefoot and loaded with Budweiser. She looked resplendent with her hair tied down and a gaiety skip in her walk. As her hands grazed mine, she turned around and looked me dead in the eye and said with disdain, “Well, why would you want to be with me anyway?”
She didn’t know that I had at least died four times in those 11 days, but I’d never felt more alive. I remember those nights in moments of poorly disguised surprise and longing discomfort. I remember how she danced with me on the highway. She was the frosty winter and the fiery summer. She froze my veins numb, but she also made them burn with passion. Each time her lips formed my name, they gave another dimension to it.
She didn’t know that when she smoothened my hair and touched the small of my back, I felt that all that I had been missing in life was embodied in her. She didn’t know that she was the comforting draught of whisky when my 3 p.m thoughts flushed my mind – when I couldn’t pretend to okay anymore because darkness was hitting on me like a hurricane.
I had seen her dance around in my shirts. I had seen her kiss me like a screaming firework and fight me like a warrior. I had seen the stubborn, hard-to-love shell she displayed. I had seen the soft-hearted cry baby who was a little needy but more so detached. I had seen the person who was cold, but warmed herself up for others.There was an emotional stigma embroidered on her heart and I wanted to undo each intricate weave.
But I said, “Your eyes are like the ocean in which I was going to drown the day you found me.”
To be continued…
P.S : Those who’ve unfortunately missed out on reading the previous instalment of this series may read it here.