“I think I’m in love with you,” I say. As the words leave my lips I’m overwhelmed by a strange feeling. Release?

  “Of course you do,” Lindsay says sweetly, shutting the fridge – but not before i notice the walls inside running wet – and looking over to me. Smiling. She’s holding a yogurt pot in her hand. Vanilla flavour. She’s anything but.

  “I’m serious,” I say, almost offended at her response. It’s taken me weeks to work up the courage but today’s flashback at the bistro truly set the wheels in motion. Pushed me over the proverbial precipice.

  “So am I, hon,” she says, crossing the kitchen floor, her bare feet sticking to the linoleum below. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  I feel irritated. This isn’t going like I planned.

  “This isn’t going like I planned,” I say, my feelings thick on my voice. She sort of grimaces at me, looks sad almost. I don’t know why.

  “Maybe you’ve been around me too long,” she says, distant already, as if she’s already gone.

  “Is this bad for me to feel this way or something? I’d always been told that love is awesome but if this is an inconvenience for you-”

  “Come on,” she says, “it’s not like that. Your feelings aren’t your own, is all. We get this sort of thing all the time. It’s not love so much as it’s… angelic oversaturation”

  “That’s not it at all, Linds,” I say, assertive now, perhaps angry. How dare she tell me how I feel? “I’ve fallen in love with you, not some celestial dupe. I’ve fallen in love with… with the way you specify egg-mayonaise as if there’s any other kind,”
  “-There is,” she interrupts, but I carry on regardless.
  “With your warmth, but not what you give off, I mean your warmth as a person. Your gentle nature and persistent desire to turn bad days into good ones. I’ve fallen in love with the way your hair curls around your ears. Your rockin’ legs and your soft eyelashes,” – I’m rolling now and probably couldn’t stop if I wanted to, but she looks like she’s tearing up so I think it’s working – “Your ability to empathise is sweet to a fault and your taste in popular culture is out of this world. I love you Lindsay, every iota of what makes you you, not just where you came from and what you’re infused with. You.”

  There’s a silence between us that stretches into the distance of our lives. She leans forwards, very careful not to break eye contact with me – the deep crashes of colour surrounding her pupils seem to go on forever – and kisses me – very softly – on the side of my lips. It’s the first time she’s ever done something like this. It feels like a normal kiss. Hotter, though, of course. But it stops me dead. I have to remember to breathe. I can’t see her smile she’s so close, but I can see her eyes and they’re telling me instead. She leans away and then takes a step or two back before opening her yogurt pot without looking at it and saying, “we’ll see.”


~ by Joseph Blame on March 14, 2011.

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