Echo

Echo by Emma Carey

"How do we turn this fucking thing off?" you yell above the blaring beep of the smoke alarm. I'm doubled over at the kitchen bench with laughter escaping my lips, set free after being locked in its depressing cage for too long.

How did we even get here? What started as a humble approach to cooking a chorizo casserole turned into a chaotic culinary disaster.

Charcoal smoke twists and turns, wafting through the kitchen, pulling me back to reality.

"It's burnt", I cry, scraping the bottom of the pot with the spatula, trying in vain to salvage our creation. I take a moment to catch my breath, but I can't take you seriously with your pig snort giggle.

You hoist your tall frame onto one of my dining room chairs and, with quick hands, pull the batteries out of the smoke alarm.

The room is quiet again.

Peace.

I look at you, standing on the chair, triumphant with two double AAs in your firm grip.

I want to kiss you in that moment.

I watch you get down from the chair and slowly walk to me, putting your arm around my waist. A gentle kiss is planted on my forehead as we both look to assess the mess.

I guess it's moments like this when you discover if cooking together is best left as a romantic ideal, a fantasy that visits you in your dreams. I never admit that I secretly prefer to have the kitchen to myself, but when you suggested we cook your sister's spicy chorizo casserole because it would be 'cute' and we 'make a great team', I thought, for you, anything.

"It's fucked. Let's order a pizza," you say.

I wake up in the comfort of my bed, surrounded by plush pillows and my soft, cosy blanket. Distant yearning tugs at my core as my desire to get up and begin the day slowly diminishes. I curl up tight. They say to embrace the fetal position is to hold oneself as you long to be held. I don't let go. Morning sunlight pours through my bedroom window, casting a warm glow and my lone shadow on the wall. A phantom kiss lingers on my cheek.

Where did you go?

***

"Just try it. I promise you'll like it, " you say, holding the spoon in front of my mouth, one hand underneath on standby to catch any escaping droplets. I'm apprehensive because my spice tolerance is rather abysmal.

You find this endearing and hilarious.

"I'm determined to get you to like spicy food." You insist, patiently waiting for me to grab the spoon and taste the hot concoction.

I poke my tongue out to take a tiny lick of the spoon, my tastebuds unsure how to react. My mouth isn't immediately on fire; it's more of a slow burn as it begins to heat up. It's not so bad, but I can't decide if that's because perhaps I don't mind the heat in my mouth or the warmth in my belly, keeping my butterfly cosy. After all, you are cooking for me on our second date.

"Good girl."

Two simple words that could coax me into breathing in flames.

"Next time," you say, before kissing my cheek, "we're going to cook this together, it's my sister's famous recipe."

"I don't know about that." I laugh, "Does your sister have other recipes in her arsenal that are a little less hot?"

"Of course. She also makes a delicious cheesy pasta bake. Like so much cheese, you're bound to have the craziest dreams."

"I like the sound of that," I say.

"The cheese?" you ask.

"The dreams. I hate cheese," I deadpan.

You laugh, and the butterflies flutter in my sunlit chest. I realize that I like to make you laugh. I watch you find your way around my kitchen, trying on my life for size.

Does it fit?

***

Your fingertips trace circles over my back, writing letters, words, and sentences—a love language that is ours alone.

It is my favourite literature.

Every stroke of your touch leaves goosebumps in its wake. My back is baking beneath the sun; sweat slickens your movement.

My body is reactive.

You lie beside me on the blanket, cupping my chin with your hand as you inch your lips towards mine.

You are going to kiss me now.

It is like no other meeting of lips I have ever known. Tongues tentatively asking for a first dance.

"Nobody is here, don't worry." You say as you catch my averted gaze in search of anybody else.

You are right; we are alone. In the middle of a summer evening, the lake is abandoned.

Did the world know to give us space to unite in our sacred privacy? Did the universe conspire in our favour?

It's just you and me and the soft hum of insects as they sing a love song just for us.

You kiss me again, this time with meaning. My body instinctively reaches towards you as you slowly run your fingertips up and down my back.

Up and down. Up and down.

I ache with a deep, heavy longing to feel more. Longing to be touched by you. Longing to touch you, too.

"Let's go for a swim," I suggest, stealing kisses from your lips before they have a chance to respond. Grabbing your hand, I pull us both up to our feet. We stroll into the lake. As the cool water wraps around our bodies, an electric shock transports us out of our dreamy lovers' haze. We let it envelope us as we wade deeper in. You are the brave one, diving under the water first. You break the surface and hoist me up onto your hips, holding me close as I straddle you.

Another stolen kiss, more goosebumps.

"It's so cold," I say, heat pooling between my legs.

"I'll keep you warm." You kiss my forehead before sinking under the water, bringing me down.

I emerge from the surface, lost in longing and desire, eyes closed as I float on my back and feel the absence of you.

Splashes of water catch my skin as children scream and laugh, playing their games – a reminder that I am alone, yet not.

When I look up, I see a couple setting down their towel next to mine, sharing a romantic evening by the water.

I bask in the evening sun's final rays as they cup my face like the ghost of your hand.

I dry myself off with my towel and start to change. I hear the whispers and giggles of the couple next to me as they pull out the two wine glasses and the same bottle of Rose that lies next to my towel.

Great minds.

"Such a good drop," I admit, packing the empty wine bottle and singular glass into my backpack before bidding them farewell.

***

I close my eyes as the music reverberates through my bones. The heat of bodies close, shuffling feet trying to catch the beat. The crowd's buzz slowly simmers into the background, and I come to, noticing that I am here, a slight vibration of collective energy.

The melancholic melody whispers an unknown tragedy that feels too familiar across my skin.

Behind my eyes is a kaleidoscope of colours, ribbons in hues of red, orange and gold glow in my darkness.

At this moment, I am stuck. Stuck in the suspension of the present, where time is no longer a construct and yet you do not exist. To embark together on the musical journey and later at home, tangled up in bed, recounting exactly how you felt.

I take a sip of my glass of wine, inhaling deeply and exhaling twice. I realize that I am here, and at the very least, I do exist.

I don't need to open my eyes to know you are watching.

The music thrums through my veins, its peaking crescendo sending shivers down my spine as I feel your gaze.

I don't need to open my eyes to see you.

To rest my head on your shoulders.

To feel your warmth on my cheek.

To breathe you in, your laundry detergent smells like home.

To interlace our hands, your firm grip in mine, feeling safe.

I get lost as we slowly dance to this song in your kitchen on a Monday night. Our heartbeats and footsteps are in sync as we sway from side to side, bodies close, sharing the same breath of air.

I don't want to open my eyes; I don't want to break this spell.

Listening to the sound of every guitar stroke, the pitch of every piano key, the beat of the bass that erupts the innermost core of my being. I just listen, but I feel a knowing.

Did you come here alone?

I open my eyes, and amidst the crowd, I see your face.

Who are you? I ask silently, willing the music to answer.

***

Shit.

I look at the clock and panic. I'm so late for work. It's bucketing outside, and I have less than ten minutes to get to the train station, which is a twelve-minute walk away on a good day.

I throw on my coat and rush out the door, sure I have left something behind. I quickly pat my pockets to ensure I have the essentials.

Keys, Wallet, Phone?

Check.

Love, Desire, You?

Who?

I make it to the station just in the nick of time. Sweat beads roll down my back, and I am grateful for the thickness of this coat, which hides the evidence. I'm about to get on the train before someone calls out my name.

"Lea!"

It's your voice; I've heard it before. I turn my head only to see a stranger in the distance waving at me.

"Lea, wait," you say.

My brows furrow in confusion as I attempt to shake off this strange feeling. The loudspeaker announces the train's imminent departure.

A whistle blows.

Final call.

I will myself to get on the train. Being late for work is not part of the plan today. When I try to turn to leave, my feet do not move, anchoring me in this moment.

What's going on?

You walk closer towards me, closing the distance between the present moment, a reality that I know to be true and the familiar rush of something else.

Something that has been haunting my subconscious in its all-consuming grip, suffocating, blurring the lines between what is real and what is a fantasy.

Did I dream this?

Did I dream of you?

"Amore."

But then there's the sound of a voice coming that I have heard before coming from a man that I have never met in my life.

You stand before me, your orbit pulling parts of my soul towards you like a magnet.

I search your face for an answer. Anything to make sense of this moment. I'm crushed by a wave of déjà vu when I hear you speak louder this time, dishevelled, covered in the rain.

"There you are." You smile at me.

"Who are you?" I whisper to myself, to the abyss.

You look at me and chuckle.

"My dear, I lost you. But I'm here, and now we can finally go home."

"I don't understand." I blink back tears; nothing makes sense.

Why does my soul recognize the stranger I have never known?

"Did you not get my messages?" You tentatively take my hand and bring it to your lips. I watch in disbelief and curious pleasure as you plant a single kiss on each finger.

"Think about how it took days to air out the smokey kitchen after we burnt the dinner."

Kiss.

"Think about the first time you tasted my spicy chilli. Think about how much you love spice now."

Kiss.

"Think about that night in July when we made love by the lake, tipsy on Rose and sunshine. Drunk in love."

Kiss.

"Or think about when we listened to your favourite band all night, dancing in my kitchen."

Kiss..

"Think about right now, looking into my eyes. You know who I am, don't you? You can see me, can't you?"

I reach inside my soul, trying to grasp the smoke of my phantom senses.

Time is not a construct.

But you do exist.

Where have I been?

The End.