I still remember the first time I saw you.
You looked completely fearless under the April sun – unkempt hair, untied shoelaces and everything in between. With a sleight of hand, you unveiled a chunky piece of gold from your pocket – it danced with sunlight as you used it to light the cigarette dangling between your lips.
I’d never have imagined the embodiment of nonchalance to use a Dupont lighter.
You had your back to me and I could see just enough of your profile to make out a smattering of freckles upon a crooked nose.
“Turn around,” I thought.
Did I speak out loud? The words were meant as a sensual whisper, a secret – but the wind seemed to carry them straight into your ears as you slowly turned my way.
I held my breath as our gazes met. Your green eyes suspended me across time and space – nothing existed but you and I.
You blinked once, then twice.
The world started to come back into focus behind you as impatient drivers honked their cars from behind tinted windows. Our fleeting bond ceased to exist as fast as it had been formed, as you turned to cross the street and tore your green eyes from my wide ones. I watched, dumbfounded, while your lanky legs took you into some unknown adventure and freed me from your grip.
Staring into his eyes feels almost like looking into a mirror.
Not only because his blank expression matches mine, but because it’s so silent. I feel like I’m alone, almost, and for some reason that makes me feel naked under his scrutiny. But this silence is not your usual peaceful, empty silence–it’s driven. It’s meaningful and pregnant. As if on cue, my stomach gurgles and my first reaction of embarrassment is washed away by our good natured laughs.
“Julian,” he says suddenly, a lopsided smirk drawing my eyes to his lips.
He looks at me once more, and I feel like a canvas being stroked by a brush. Disquieting quiet once more covers us like a heavy duvet as he takes my hand in his, and this time I almost feel like even silence is too much sound. His fingers, rough as may be, trace my hand as if I were some sort of treasure. His touch feeds me as much as it fuels my hunger, and I can feel desire wrapping around me like vines.
I seem to snap awake when I feel my body responding to him and stand up hurriedly, snatching my hand away from his. He says nothing, just looks at me as if he knows what I am thinking. Then again, he probably does. I feel a powerful need of escape overcoming me, and instead of running to the door, sit myself back down. What exactly is escape?
“Jules…” He whispers.
For a moment I can’t even believe that’s the same name I’ve been called all my life. It is the only thing that truly belongs to me, and somehow it sounds different on his tongue.
I’m about to ask why he called my name and said nothing, when I realize he has been saying a lot. It’s me who hasn’t been listening.
“Staring down the rain won’t make it stop.”
“Then come on,” he says, holding out a hand toward me. I look at it, then force my eyes to meet his. I search through the fog, through the thunderous gray, but the only hint of emotion I see in the eyes looking into mine is vague impatience.
I run headfirst into the rain without taking his hand or giving him a warning. It doesn’t take him long to reach and then pass me by. Droplets of water spank me, ruining my hair and getting into my eyes, blurring away the world into a desperate, soggy mess.
“Wait!” I yell after him, but his body gets farther away from mine each second; blurring even more. I lift up a hand as if to grab him, but all it seems to accomplish is blurring him further into the horizon; like charcoal on paper.
I lift my leg feebly to run after him, but find my strength gone, and slump on the ground as a heap of defeated misery. Closing my eyes is a relief, and only then do I realize how long it has been since I have been bathed by nature. With my eyes closed, the sound of the water hitting concrete seems the only sound there is to be heard– the caressing water feels like a part of me, as much as my own blood. My lips part and I taste myself in the water. There’s no make-up to be molten, no hair to be spoiled, no clothes to be ruined; there is nothing but me and the world, and nothing between us.
“What happened?” His voice seems to slap me back into consciousness. “I’m sorry. Come on, let’s find some cover.”
“No!” I notice how crazy I must seem, and then repeat myself in a lower voice. “No.”
“Are you okay?” He asks, holding out his hand again.
This time my eyes find his effortlessly, and lose him just as easily; a pair of dots in the vast skyline. We forget running and simply walk with the sky above us and the world before us; our guardians and arbitrators. A grin tugs at the edge of my lips as I reach a hand out toward the rain, trying to grasp it between my fingers as if we were sharing some sort of inside joke or secret. I wink in the general upward direction, and take the striking thunder as a good enough, if slightly enthusiastic, response.
I’m not sure what it is exactly that my body longs for, but it is manifested as a deep, slow burning ache rooted in my guts and bones. This relentless desire tugs at me like dogs against their leashes, fighting for liberation…
This very morning I stood before the emptiness of my open windows and fell in love with something I cannot even hope to name. The sweet hum of life called to me with its odes to love and joy, from behind clouds and under bushes; bringing the ocean’s salt into my eyes. The songs of the wind and the living collided and collapsed themselves into a symphony behind my eyes- my body is a blank canvas, ready to be painted with fingertips, mapped by greedy lips, traced with tips of tongues and wisps of hair which would be blown back by soft, but hungry breathing. I crave legs intertwined with mine, laced in a patchwork of fluids. I crave obscenities whispered breathlessly into my ears, being an island in knotted sheets; vulnerable, yet invincible.
I crave infinity.
The place was beautiful, a shock between man-made and nature-generated. I couldn’t help but feel dwarfed by the vast living room; spacious and regal yet somehow not intimidating.
The windows, by far the most attractive spot, filled most of the far back wall, and opened to the beautiful sight of Britain’s countryside. The sky was beautifully lit by the stars and moon, as if coated in sugar; and right below it, all that could be seen was green. Bushy trees and tall grass; blousy flowers and spidery, gnarled twigs twisted upwards, as if beckoning the light and the sky closer.