The First Time I Saw Him

I still remember the first time I saw him.

Saffron hair glistening beneath the scorching flare of a mid-afternoon sun, like bubbles erupting through a flute of champagne or, perhaps, like languid flames nestled inside a beige fireplace.

Eyebrows knitted, as he pored over a thick paperback resting between long fingers adorned with a smattering of sliver rings and a thin sheen of flaxen hair.

This was the first time I saw him.

Heart in my throat, rhythmic beats reverberating across my chest, finding it hard to swallow.

Watching his thick eyelashes flutter as he continued to read. Grecian nose occassionslly scrunching up. Protubent mouth pursed almost mindlessly.

That was the first time I saw him.

But when someone asks me, as they often used to, the first time was when he first saw me.

Upon the massive staircase of our university, as I made my way down, scurrying to catch a glimpse of him in the campus garden, knowing that I was almost 40 minutes behind our usual randezvous, stumbling, about to fall, caught by the elbow, rescued.

"Hey!"

He rescued me.

Heart in my throat, rhythmic beats reverberating across my chest, finding it hard to swallow.

Hey.

Hey.

I wanted to say, hey, I wanted to whisper it like a hymn, like a prayer. Skin burning beneath long fingers, eyes darting everywhere except where they wanted to be. Upon his. Peering into baby blues that had their own glinting to do.

Hey.

I said. Like a hymn, like a prayer.

And so, greetings turned into stolen glances turned into banter turned into sleepless nights turned into hushed confessions.

Confessions between our hearts, between our souls, confessions we dared not utter, mouths concealing what the eyes could never.

He had someone, someone that held him back.

I had someone -- him -- holding me back.

Friends? Confidants? Indulgences?

Like fleeting moments of stolen bliss, of breaking free and slipping away, eluding where we were with where we could be, like simple pleasures found only in each other's company.

Or like... Acquaintances.

Guilty secrets, each hidden in the spirit of the other, sneaking around, night after night, huddling together, only a foot apart, beneath a moon that shone bright. Watching it languorously sink into the horizon. Silently. Patiently. Sometimes pouring our hearts out. Talking about our dreams, our passions, our sorrows. Listening to birds chirp as dawn broke.

We blurted out things we'd never even thought about. In this nook eclipsed from the entire universe, our words were pious revelations. Promises never made but that were ought to be kept.

The two of us, stripped bare, naked minds, naked souls. To be ravished, to be consumed. To be held tenderly between parched lips, like a silent plea. Save me, save me.

At school, he looked through me. An arm sprawled across dainty shoulders he was unable to leave. He hadn't told me why, I hadn't dared ask.

At school, I looked through them too.

My skin constantly splotchy, heat seeping through every pore, having experienced him so close I could simply reach out and touch him, having experienced him so far, as if eons away, a place where I could never reach, I could never be.

Sometimes I used to peer at them, wondering if he'd told her about his alcoholic father, the ways in which he used to torture his vacuous mother or the ways in which she used to bear each blow with hollow eyes, without even so much as a whimper.

I wondered if he'd told her about the ways he'd been tortured. Or about watching his mother wither away in front of his own two eyes.

Sometimes I used to watch her graze petit fingers across his cheek. And the way he used to flinch, ever so slightly.

But mostly I looked through them. Watching the minutes trickle by, waiting for the dead of the night.

It was years before he said it.

I love you. Like a hymn, like a prayer.

Almost four, or five years. Maybe twenty. Maybe an eternity. A lifetime.

It was pouring outside, fat droplets falling all at once, a maddening raucous, thunderbolts everywhere. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was sunny and hot, like the day I first saw him and the noise took place inside of me. White noise. Splicing my skull open.

Frankly all I remember about that day, besides the way his eyes peered at me, through glistening lashes, was that he was about to get married.

I love you.

The satin was making my skin itch and crawl, like ants running rampant, I wanted out. Out of the dress. The wedding. The duties as a bridesmaid.

Wait, that's not right.

Did he say I love you? I could swear he did, protubent mouth curling in a grimace as he spat out the words, pained by a confession that should've happened years ago. But didn't.

I love you.

Or did his mouth curl up, grinning, tasting the love behind his own words, having gulped it a million times before, always sweeter than before.

I love you.

He has a scar on his left cheek, a lengthy trail of bumpy skin with jagged edges that I had never noticed before he first saw me. I wanted to ask him about it, wanted to hear his pain, soak it up. I couldn't. He'd told me about it anyway, about his father carving his cheek open after he caught him sneaking a loaf of bread.

I had cried. Maybe he did too. Or maybe he had continued to peruse the moon as she played hide and seek in the sky.

How long ago was that? I can still remember like it was yesterday. Maybe it was yesterday. Puckered skin beneath my fingertips. I can still feel it.

I reach out and touch his cheek, he never flinches underneath my touch, never shies away, and he always looks over at me and cracks the biggest grin known to mankind.

He'd told me about it, about his mother carving his cheek open after she caught him trying to poison his father with a loaf of bread.

I am hungry.

I remember being hungry at his wedding. Nerves, butterflies in my stomach fluttering at a maddening pace. My mouth watering as I watched the wedding party pile deliciousness upon deliciousness right in front of me. My stomach growled, his hand tightened around mine, eyebrow raised, grinned.

He sneaked me away then, fed me whatever his friend could scour in his quick heist. Stale pizza upon a paper napkin and cheap wine from a styrofoam glass which was long gone by the time the moon had vanished and dawn broke all around us. Birds chirping. It was our first "date." One wherein no one was asked out and no one got a goodnight kiss.

Our first kiss was unexpected. A breath of a kiss, until it wasn't. Like fervored frenzied fanatics, we kissed till we were gasping for breath. Breathing each other in and out like it was the end of the world. Or the beginning of one.

A whole new world. Ours.

Am I there now? He tells me about a scar on his cheek, about his father carving it open after he caught him trying to steal a loaf of bread. Or was it his mother?

I used to dream about him sometimes. As a kid, I used to dream about blue eyes, saffron hair, cheek marred with crinkled skin. No. When I first saw him, I started dreaming about him.

What did I dream about as a child? Am I dreaming now?

I am 40 minutes late to our randezvous, almost two months of feasting my eyes upon him as he gently broke away from the world, engrossed in fictional universes, whilst I made wistful love-eyes upon him from afar.

I can see his eyes, wet with tears, big green eyes breaking right in front of me. Green like leaves, like moss, like algae. Green like mine. Crying. Telling me that dad had been in an accident. Crumbling onto the floor, grabbing me, pulling me close. Crying into my shoulder. The weight of her head, leaving a bright pink splotch in its wake.

He passed away.

My father died. I can feel my heart crack, like her expensive china, like when it slipped from my fingers and thumped to the floor, separating into three unequal parts, and mom narrowed moss green eyes at me and then broke out into the biggest grin known to mankind.

My father died.

I can't breathe.

I feel my feet hit the floor. Where am I? I have to go to my father, I have to save him.

My father was a big guy, like a mountain. He used to bring my favourite treats even when I'd never told him that they were. He used to dote over my mother, somehow he always knew what she was feeling, what she wanted, if she was okay or not.

It was too late. Too late now. The satin was scratching at my skin, I had cried for an entire month, he knew that's what I wanted, that's what I needed. With every ounce of my being, I needed to be loved by him.

He always knew what I wanted.

Butterfly ranunculus, and not hydrangeas. A-line, and not mermaid. A long veil, and not short. One of his favorite silver ring, and nothing else.

He had taken care of it all, meticulously, all that I'd wanted was taken care of. Even as acquaintances, he'd cared about the minutest details.

He broke my china today, we'd pulled it out from the shelf for the guests we were expecting, he was cleaning, I was cooking. It slipped from his his fingers and thumped to the floor, separating into three unequal parts. Then he broke into the biggest grin known to mankind.

Was that today? It can't be today. I'm in my nightie, I don't wear nighties in front of guests, that's absurd.

Where is he? What time is it? He should've returned by now.

I love you.

Like a hymn, like a prayer.

I'd cried, he'd cried too. Finally, we'd embraced, stuck to each other, for an eternity, it felt like nothing could separate us ever again. He'd whispered that in my ear, I promise. I promise.

He had an older sister, she had married a deranged man who was an alcoholic, who used to torture her, blow after blow, in ways unimaginable. She'd had a smile like him, but their mother's eyes. Their mother's soul.

The times he'd tried to protect them, they'd pushed him away. Their hell, theirs to live through. To die in.

As a kid, he used to jump in front of his father's blows, then his father used to belt both of them till they passed out. As an adult, he started going out with the deranged man's younger sister, married her, so that he could protect his own. Then the deranged man killed her.

It had haunted him, watching her wither away. He used to cry, curse, bawl. At his inability to protect them. To rescue them.

He rescued me.

"Hey!"

Hey.

Heart in my throat, rhythmic beats reverberating across my chest, finding it hard to swallow.

Hey.

When was the last time I slept? I used to stay awake all night, watching the moon and her stars. But really, all I did was watch him. Him, from the corner of my eye. Skin gleaming under the moonlight, pitch black hair swaying to the music of the wind.

I remember now, it really couldn't have been today. I'd already given my china plates to someone last week when we had guests over because we didn't have any use of them and they kept breaking and I couldn't bear loosing anymore of them. They were my mother's. She used to glare at me when I'd break them. Then grin.

I wonder who kissed first. I was in the backseat of his car that smelt like pepermint and muck, I was sweaty, the musty stench and the packed car was making my skin crawl. His hand was on my thigh. Grazing skin. Skin bathed in droplets of sweat. I was grossed out. I was horny. I wanted my first kiss before word got out that I hadn't been kissed before. I didn't want my first kiss in Dead Rat Valley.

He kissed me first, slobbering, teeth scratching the soft skin inside my mouth, fingernails digging everywhere. He kissed me till I wanted to gag. Who was he again?

Today I went down to the basement, the light kept flickering making an eclipse of moths erupt in my chest. The steps were too steep, the staircase larger than I'd expected. The air was heavy, I couldn't breathe. The china plates were missing, I needed them, I needed them for the dinner party, Mrs. Smith was a complete show-off, but even she mustn't have better plates than mine. Why did dad have to bring her home? He knew I didn't want dolls. He knew it.

At this point my hands were shaking like crazy, my knees buckled, and I called out for my mother. Her china was gone.

My mother used to read me stories every night. Tuck me in. Rake her palm across my scalp. Kiss my forehead. And turn the night lamp on. Before she reluctantly departed my bedroom. She stopped doing that soon after... After?

Was it after I broke the last of her china plates? I used to sneak them into my room so that I could play house like a real mommy, I'd broken them accidentally, sometimes, other times on purpose. She'd thrown them away. They'd been her mother's.

But I'd liked the way they'd cracked.

I need them for the dinner party tomorrow. All my friends are going to visit, to celebrate. My fingers graze the skin on my stomach.

I can still feel her kisses on my forehead. Like it was yesterday. Or not even hours ago. Palm grazing my scalp. Kiss on the forehead.

I'm afraid. I can feel the fear crawling across my chest, like a heartbeat but heavier, it is making my hands shake. I want to look around. I want to run. I want out of here. Out of this place. Out of the dress. The wedding. The duties as a bridesmaid.

My skin is still itching from the lavender satin gown. God, I can't believe he said it.

I love you.

It was every bit the nightmare I'd imagined it to be. Petrified of what it meant, for everyone, petrified of the next second, of the next step.

I love you.

Did he say those words? Or did he just look at me and I'd imagined the words pour out of him?

I'm afraid now I can hear faint chirps, the beckoning of dawn yet to break. They remind me of someone.

"Are you sleeping?"

He knows I'm not sleeping. I never sleep until I see him, until he sneaks into my room, hands over his day's forages, perches himself on the edge of my bed and listens to birds chirping outside with me. None of us talk, we listen in peaceful silence, until my eyelids grow heavy and I fall asleep for whatever is left of the night.

Today, there are no treats. Just the two of us, listening to birds chirp as dawn breaks.

And as my eyes droop, I feel someone kiss my forehead and I'm too exhausted to wonder who it is.

I still remember the first time I saw him.

I'm disconcerted. My first thought is that I have overslept, I have to cook breakfast, I have to get ready, I have to go to work, I have to feed the baby.

I'm disconcerted.

"Hey,"

I jerk my head towards the voice.

I have overslept.

Ambling towards me with a sliver tray is an unfamiliar face.

I have to cook breakfast.

Heaps of deliciousness upon deliciousness.

I have to get ready.

My stomach growls.

I have to go to work.

Is that my mother's china?

I have to feed the baby.

I'm terrified.

Is she mad at me? Did she find the pieces I'd hidden in my closet? Where is my dad?

He sets the tray in front of me, pulls the curtains apart. Sunlight.

"Good morning,"

Heart in my throat, rhythmic beats reverberating across my chest, finding it hard to swallow

My father is dead.

He touches my face, eyebrows knitted, smattering of silver rings, thin sheen of flaxen hair.

My father. He must be at work by now. My mother. She must be at work by now. The baby? I have no baby.

I look at this man then, my mouth dry, heart palpitating. Even though I'm terrified, I look at him.

Saffron hair glistening beneath the scorching flare of a mid-afternoon sun, like bubbles erupting through a flute of champagne or, perhaps, like languid flames nestled inside a beige fireplace.

I'm terrified.

"Who are you?"

I'll always remember the first time I saw him.