I thought about running the few blocks left to get home, but convinced myself that nothing would happen.
I had an image of the cab’s roof shining briefly with some streetlights, while I thought about the two missed calls I left on his cell phone, the way those two guys touched my waist while we danced. I felt gross. Sunday, bloody sunday, roared through the speakers, and I longed his arms, his kisses. His touch, that somehow I havent loved yet. Still. Maybe never.
And while I walked under streetlights I wished for his hand against my waist, his voice telling me that I could come over. I remembered how those guys tried to tempt me, while all I could think about was him. You.
I don’t even love him, but he’s the only thing I know right now.
Does it make sense?
We sat in the car for forty minutes.
I had just bring myself to tell her everything I’ve hid of her for the past months. She wasn’t upset, just surprised. And it came pouring down my mouth, all of it: my cynicism, his respectfulness; my constant apathy towards him even though everything that has happened between us.
I told her I was nervous, that I had no idea how to deal with something so near to an actual romantic date. She told me to let go, thet it’ll be fine. I said the dynamic me and him have it’s a different sort that hers with her boyfriend, considering we sat ground rules before sleeping together: some basic “I’m not looking for a relationship” kind of speech. And she… well, she’s in love. I’m in lust. It’s different.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow we have a picnic date. Just writing about it gives me chills, and not the good kind. They’re more the physical reaction to an ick factor. Me and him on a picnic. Daylight. No alcohol in sight.
It has never been so clear to me how romance-impaired I am.
And I can’t say it’s what you know,
but you’ve known it the whole time.
Source: SoundCloud / Kreecher
SUBMISSION: 100 pomegranate seeds, organized neatly.
Source: thingsorganizedneatly
We took advantaje of the absence, the blue lighting, and the two litres of beer we had split between bars that forced us to find another one, begging for a bathroom.
Whiskey sour and your other hand found its nest in my lower back; the dress I was wearing had a zipper across the front of it, from my chest to my legs. It didn’t take you long enough to notice it.
I felt your fingers traveling down the fabric, while I explored your back with gripping hands and scratching nails. I enjoyed that game, to keep quiet when the music stopped and those two lingering seconds between songs made us realise the volume of our sighs, when your smile just made us seem more guilty, more public.
Looking back, I know I wouldn’t have let you do what you did had I been sober. The night had turned into an alcohol-guided blur, who had us stumbling down crowded sidewalks, laughing at our own boring jokes, trying to catch a red light when crossing the street just to kiss. Although, looking back, I recognize it was me the one who told you to scoot over on the couch just so I could face you while sitting on your lap.
When we came down the stairs my thighs ached. We payed and left the bar, and just as we were stepping outside, a sudden spring breeze cooled the traces your tongue left on my neck. We walked in silence, too tired to speak, too ecstatic to yawn, and you waited with me for my bus to arrive while you cradled me against your shoulder. And when my bus came and I turned around to see you waving a goodbye, I gave you a smile and you winked back at me. And you scarred me with that still image of you with your hands in your pockets, and left me your rogue smile tattoed on my memory.
I know, from that brief instant where I told myself I had to capture you as you were, that somehow I had the certainty we wouldn’t see eachother again.
Sometimes, when I feel lonely and think of you, I can still get a chill from remembering your touch and the night’s combined, as if both of you had decided to make love to me and allow the world to witness.
The first time I saw light it was blinding. I lay next to my brothers and wondered what the future may hold for us. Somehow, I knew we were going to be together until, one by one, we left our safe eviorment and ventured to the world, to fulfill whatever task it was determined for us by chance.
Getting used to their partings was one of the most difficult things I had to endure up until then. There was no way of knowing when the next one of us may leave. Sometimes it would be weeks of peaceful slumber before the world opened itslef with that blinding light and the random chance of discovery for the next one in line.
Time passed, and we were fewer. I caught myself wondering why it hadn’t happened yet, why was it that life took so much time to start and left me there, collecting seconds of hope as one chance followed another and brushed by my side, leaving me once more.
And then I met her.
She approached me with that inherent security that caughts you ungaurded and lifts you up as easily as wind would lift a leaf. I gave myself completely, waiting for a sign to let me know if this was the one, if I could start living once and for all. She didn’t disapoint me.
Before I knew, she had peeled me off my restraints, leaving me as I was meant to be on the first place. She let me contain her, guard her, relieve her from any pain that could aproach her just by trusting I wouldn’t let her go.
Time seemed short when we were pressed against eachother. She showed me the world from moving perspectives, gliding from the intimacy of her routine to the wandering streets that led her path.
But time ket on passing. Somehow I grew weary and tired, and she seemed to notice, but did nothing about it. She fought as hard as she could to keep us together, and I knew she tought at the time that I was irreplaceable. But my arms gave up and the lie of my strenght showed itself: I could not hold her anymore.
I waited for the right time to leave; a time when she wouldn’t notice my absence until it was too late. I lost myself with the crowd just as the day started to turn into night, and let go that soft grip I had on top of her elbow to fade away, knowing that my touch was now so slight she won’t tell the difference.
I watched her walking away from me, and I could predict, saddened, that after the brief sting of annoyance my parting will produce her, she’d look another way and find another who, like I did before, would hold her as one holds on to life.
When she left, I was stepped upon repeatedly. I traveled with the remainings of my strenght focused on someone else’s footsteps, glued to their shoes. And once they noticed my presence, they brushed me off with disgust, imagining my past, and left me to rot in a dark and unkown corner.
For who could bother to throw into the trash a used band-aid?
We used to lay on bed, soaking the sun rays that crossed through my room’s half closed curtains. I remember how your cigarette smoke twirled around and above, cutting it’s way through the same light that landed so slightly over your lips, your eyes, your hair.
And that leaf-shaped asthray that stood on my nightstand would get flooded by our ashes, sometimes so full the cigarette butts would fall on my carpet, leaving a mess I would always clean as badly as I could, for every grey ash reminded me of you.
If I close my eyes and try to recall the scents of my room from those lazy summer days, somehow the dense smoke never makes its way to the first place. No. It’s your skin, that small patch of naked skin between your ear and your hairline that finds its way to my memory the quickest. And of course, your laughter that bursted every time I snuggled there, as you made your best effort to relax and stay still even though you told me it tickled you so badly.
It’s been months since I last smoked. Months since I last saw you, just weeks after you slammed my bedroom door leaving your half empty pack behind you. I managed to pick myself from the autumn sun that landed coldly on my bed and was convinced to get out. That same time I falsely celebrated my singleness with my girlfriends and spotted you a couple of tables away, and kept quiet about your presence.
You had your eyes closed in the deepest relaxation while music exploded around us and around you both, while she made port in that same spot it took me months to convince you to let me stay in.
I heard my friends laughing and joined them a second after, as if nothing had happened. I stared down at my fingers while the chatter got as happy as it would between friends, and focused on the smoke rising from the cigarette I was holding.
I swore off from it and you at the same time, crushing it against the glass ashtray and holding back the urge to howl like a wounded dog.
It’s been months, and people ask me how I do it, how I keep myself from smoking. I tell them it’s easy, that the decision just lays within one’s will power. Of course I fail to mention the fact that everytime I smell cigarrete smoke in it’s purest I feel sick, because I’m unable to recall our afternoons together, for the only thing it reminds me of is how peaceful you looked with someone else over your shoulder.
You try and make like this is so much fun,
but we know it to be quite contrary.
Source: SoundCloud / theshins
So this are the reasons I’m stating in my acceptance letter to a Masters Programme in Journalism at my University:
- to bring my dregree and academic experience to a more practical realm.
- to open my working oportunities to an intelectually stimulant enviorment.
- to make myself with the retorical and excercising means of constant writing, as a way to explain myself more accurately.
- to aqquire actual working experience during my internship, as a way to set a stone in my future.
- to have something to do next year, otherwise my mom is going to kill me.
Would this convince the Acceptance Comitee?
I'm 22 year old girl with a degree in Hispanic Linguistics and Literature, born and raised in Chile. Someone who quickly loses the ability to write when it comes to describe herself.
