L.O.V.E

L is for the way the lights seem to crackle underneath the dark evening, the first sign of evil trudging up the path. I find myself deliberately walking slower, letting all the pairs gather momentum in their midnight sightseeing spree, allowing thoughts to spin just so I don’t.

It’s terribly awkward, I should have stayed in. But hogging chocolate at 32 kmph and crumbling underneath twelve blankets was not the way I wished to end the start of a lovely evening. And so, I wait. Until the bridge is empty. Until all wishes have been tossed, hands held, kisses passed and hugs given. Until I’m alone.

The night seems somewhat sleepy when it’s my turn. As if it knows. I walk the bridge of quiet cobblestones, a dark mass of empty water flowing beneath. The yellow streetlights paint the entire scene as an amateur Van Gogh painting, since there are stars missing. And so is the moon. I pause to lean over the railings, chewing on a stray part of my mouth, but pain cannot satisfy the urge pull it apart. It only brings out a tint of red. Metallic, they say is the taste of it. Although, I will never know for sure. I have never tasted it as anything but bloody.

The river is too far below to touch but I wish to run my fingers along it. I’m sure it must feel like silk, the cream of the chocolate melting atop my fingertips, the cotton of my comfort shirt laying on my pulse. Why did I come out again? To think, perhaps. To think about the river. To think about it’s procreation. To think of the life that dwells beneath this blanket, swimming free of any troubles. Except predation, perhaps. Or competition. Or the endless deeds organic matter must fulfill to live a life. To live a life. Live. A life. L is not for life. L is for the way the limitlessness of life inhibits living.

O is for the one lone figure on the bridge, but it is not me. It is a blonde, in a coat of feathers the colour of skies; it makes me scoff at the hilarity of it. 14th of February, a man, a woman, a cobblestone bridge, a void of a river, the night and the light, the tension it brews. It’s pathetic.

I want to sigh but I do not want her to feel I did it for her sprinkle of attention. I sigh internally at that thought. Now that I’m not alone, my thoughts organise themselves into a mess. She is on the other side, looking at the same soppy water as I am. Only that I do it first. Hah. Although I am not looking at it right now; I don’t even know what I’m doing right now.

I lean forward until my field of vision is all black. No lights, no blondes, no heaviness, no dust in my eye. It’s all clear because what is more clear than black? Pulling away and setting myself onto the bridge’s schemes, I suppress a yawn. Yawns are usually loud. And they break the room.

It’s late. I turn, and listen. Clack! goes my boot, splash! spills the water, hoot! says the owl, and the bridge breaks openly. I realise O is for the onomatopoeia of the night.

V is very, very horribly disconcerting as I look towards the woman who called me. A young man, the likes of me? Doubtful.

“Could you please drop me to the nearest station, dear? My eyesight is not what it used to be.” A smile, no wrinkles at the eyes. Not what it used to be?

“I do not wish to disturb you, though.”

Disturbance is a sore itch in my throat when I nod politely. How does one scratch it without tearing at the veins? She reaches for my hand, a smooth gesture. I resist the urge to plunge. The station is nearby, we’ll be there in 5, there is no need for thoughts, there is no need for anything at all.

We walk, silence building upon us like a stone tower. It will crash. I must do something. I glance at her but she does not care, she hums the tune of birdsongs and is close to skipping. It is strangely comforting even though I remind myself most serial killers are charming, and most victims are naïve. Me. And perhaps her.

Before we see the station, we hear it. The bustle, the rush, an untimely hour for so many people to be here. Bad timing. I hold a grimace at the edge of my mind but she jumps at the sight of red, heart balloons. I wish to pop them and hear the silence. She glances, not so subtly, at the coffee cups steaming at the brim, the soft roundness of marshmallows in hot cocoa, the warmth in cold, huddled hands. I cannot help but lose all feeling in mine. Why are we holding hands again? It fits the mood, though. She blends in beautifully.

A sudden stop in our steps brings me out of my stricken reflection and I look at her. Once. Twice. I cannot look at her thrice because that 3 is a good number. She turns her head towards a nearby coffee shop. It has fairy lights strewn in sprinkles, couples even more so. There is a small row of rose bushes on the outline, red as ever in the glow of yellow lighting. Golden, as some would say. A small sigh of ‘Pick me not!’ hangs above, on the white fence. White does not do good in this lighting. White does not look as golden as red. It looks like jaundice.

I look down at my white shirt. Diseased, doomed, dramatic.

I cannot let it get to me; I’ve heard white is a necessity for a closet. But she’s wearing red and it haunts me, a ghost of golden lights, an angel of a thousand eyes, charming and ugly. I wish to prick at it. Very, very unforgettable.

E is even more than the eagerness on her face, it’s exhortation. I want to sigh but I do not wish her attention on my predicament. Oh, but I do. Disturbance crawls upwards, in a zigzag motion at that, when I nod in affirmation.

“Due to the circumstances, does it classify as a date?” The grin is too unfamiliar to be true.

Teenage recklessness is what I hear. A clever scheme is what I see. But what I taste in my mouth? I’m too embarrassed to feel it.

…It’s soft.

I am adept at lying, I practice my lies, in dreams and on slow afternoons. I know what to say, but here, right now, I know what she wants to hear.

It’s been a while since my dimple has shown itself.

We rush to get in line, holding hands like madmen on the road to discovery. She talks about coffee the entire time we stand in line. I make sure to not understand why I want to remember her favourite. I don’t even know her name.

“A matcha latte and an iced Frappuccino. Yes, thank you. Under the name Gracie, yes.” Her fingernails on the countertop are the same colour as her cheeks. Golden red.

Gracie. It fits. Somewhat.

We sit farther back from the shop, on chairs that feel freshly painted this romance eve, on two sides of a table that is too small for two. She talks about how her friend, Mira, ditched her at a mixer she didn’t even want to attend in the first place. Her chin rests on her palm when she talks, it’s almost as if she has known me for a while and this is not some blind meeting.

“I could have been content spending today with her, you know. But she wants someone else. Someone she doesn’t even know that well. I mean, that’s just…mean, no? Plus, I’m not that desperate for a partner. Yet.”

There is a pause before the ‘yet’ I cannot comprehend. Yet. I startle myself by responding warmly.

It was that moment, I think. When the fairy lights dimmed, and the moon opened itself before us, all blue and soft in the mellow lights. I don’t know how long we talked for. I don’t know when we reached the subway station. I don’t know why I jumped in with her. All I know is E is even more than everlasting lunacy on my part.

Love is something that rests beyond, on delicate, pink flowers in barren lands. Love is something I doubt I have enough stored of in the sheaths of my mind. Love is something for the fairies, for the changelings, it is not for the common village folk. A word of soft syllables in a burnt mouth, it’s nothing short of tyranny.

The piggy bank rattles and all I hear are a bunch of coins staggering about. It is useless to break it open at this point; what use are coins to the wicked? What use are the fragments of affection to the terrors? We will gobble it up and not hesitate to poke out our tongue.

As the compartment squeaks into a run, I am reminded of going home. I look at her but she is already looking at me. Inexplicably, I am reminded of the river.

Love is a fractured cobblestone bridge between you and me, the great void looming beneath your standing. Love is the somber glow on your complexion, it is a warning in your eyes. Love is your unspoken call and I am but a haste decision.