I’m going through a weird phase right now, emotionally. Screw the long explanation, there’s a guy, I kinda like him. Blah blah. Whine whine. So anyway whenever I get bummed about this kinda stuff I write emo or semi-emo love stories, with the rare non-emo happy endingiy story. This one is a weird mix of both and also a weird mix of Shakespearean English and my show-obsessed rant English. The melding wasn’t as awkward as I expected, but then again what do I know, I like a guy who thinks getting free stuff is a bad thing. Read, enjoy and please do comment. :
There was a stage. There was a spotlight. And in it I stood on the tiptoes of my feet. My gown was long and abounded with ambiguous stains that come with years of storage. The play was Romeo and Juliet. My part was wonderfully agonizing. I stood there saying those lines. Meaning every one of them, perhaps some more than others.
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.
Okay, I didn’t mean those words at all. I barely understood them. These ones on the other hand:
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.
Take all myself, I willed for you to hear. I sought your face in the audience. I saw it, as I always did when I closed my eyes and when I opened them as well. There you were smiling, watching, with your arms linked with her. I am not Juliet and you clearly aren’t my Romeo, or my Shawn Spencer even.
I do not know what love is, I never have. I do not believe it can be called love until there are two. When one heart longs for another, pounding in solitude, aching without solace, it cannot be love can it? I do not believe that could be the case. Love is not the term for affections unrequited, for an invitation declined. It isn’t love when your thoughts are of only one person and that person’s only thoughts are of Spanish supermodels.
The play concluded, the applause and consequent pride took up space in my heart. I smiled at you once again, and you, you winked at me, cheeky, forever playful, constantly tugging at the strings of my heart and as much as it pains me to admit, soul as well.
Behind the stage I was wrapping up when you came up to me. Thankfully you had left her behind. I stood there pretending not to be idle even though I had seen you coming in the mirror. You gave me a hug, one of those you always saved for special occasions- a dollop of warmth, a dash of softness, a wad of affection and just a hint of linger. You have no idea how much I loved the linger, how much I read into it, how many times I have analysed it, counted the seconds and even kept a journal( jk I am not that crazy). It’s been 2 years in the making and I still haven’t told you how I feel, mostly because I don’t like feeling this way, also because I want you to make the first move, ya big oaf!
‘Good stuff’, you said. You had never really been able to compliment me, not in superlatives anyway. Always good, never great. Always okay, never sure. It made me want to chop off your thumb, but then again I would consider the things you and I wouldn’t be able to do without your thumb and avoid succumbing to that instinct.
This instinct however, I was tired of suppressing, irritated with its persistence, positively disgusted with its intensity. I can’t describe it any other way. I didn’t thank you, I didn’t hug you back, I lunged. Grabbing your arms at my waist, I held them tight and kissed you hard. You pushed me up against a rather wobbly dressing room wall and kissed me back. I was tired no more, I loved the instinct, I was elated with its persistence, elated with its existence, elated by its intensity and just so goddamn happy with the response. I was in love and you weren’t far behind.