Monday, May 5, 2008

his note & the lump in her throat. his sigh, her eyes remain dry

17 Apr 2008

An amazing thought occurred to him the other night. That perhaps he hadn't been in love yet. Now whilst some would consider this an impossibility considering his life until the moment it was a genuine wonder that excited his mind and heart. He had known love, given it and taken it; but had he truly been in it? He realised that he should probably feel some sadness, some melancholy or desperation to know for sure but he just couldn't bring himself to it.

He'd experienced a racing heart beat at someone's presence. He'd had the butterflies, the late night conversations, the looks, the kisses and the moments but were they really the sum of being in love? He tried to think back to all the people he'd given something to and wondered how much they'd given back. Not one of them, who occurred to him had given as much as he had. So, then maybe he had been in love. Maybe being in love was giving and just giving endlessly to another soul. Wanting and waiting to be given back to. To be given back.

No, he retorted silently to himself. He mustn't have been in love. Being in love is something you can't shake. It's a feeling that stays with you forever. No matter whether you've busted apart from that person or whether you're still with them or whatever. It's a staying feeling in your heart shaped brain that tells you forever that you've had them and been had and that whatever the circumstance surrounding you now you feel like there is or was never an end to the having.

The more he picked apart the philosophical ideas the more he concluded that he hadn't been in love. This stirred up something inside him. New possibilities, endless possibilities, adventure, frontiers, new and potential moments. He hurried himself to bed to quicken the passing of the night so he could awake to a new day and a new outlook on the world. Charmed with the notion of romance and one day falling in love he started to lose consciousness and dream.

He awoke to the sound of his alarm starting to chirp. It was becoming a pattern that he couldn't remember his dreams exactly. Not the people or the places at least. Though random conversations with faces that he knew but were just blank skin pink circles. His head was filled with rhetoric. The dreams always ended with him going to sleep and starting to dream. That was when he'd wake up. It was that panic feeling of fright he might not dream that seemed to instigate these lucid thoughts.

The sound of the chirping getting more frequent. He caught it before it escalated in volume. He turned back from the bedside chest of drawers to her and remembered in a brief second of wave of thought the last 2 and a half years. She slept quietly, unaffected by the alarm or the rising sun or the day creeping in. He put his arm around her waist, palm to her stomach and kissed the back of her neck. She stirred slightly and softly mumbled something incoherent. And stayed asleep. He slipped from the blankets and stepped flat footed, quietly across the carpet to the door. He carried his clothes and shoes and jacket under his arm to the bathroom to change. He buttoned his shirt, linked his cuffs, combed his hair, zipped his fly, laced his boots, buckled his belt and splashed his aftershave.

He scribbled the words onto her white board beside the fridge in the kitchen and paced slowly to the front door. He unlatched the lock, opened the screen door and pulled them both behind him. The brisk morning air tingled his neck and he flicked his scarf around, over his shoulder and walked. He lit a cigarette and thought about his note and wondered how she would be.

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