Almost Lover

 

I would describe myself has being almost completely independent. I have had many almost lovers: makeshift romantic situations, but no picnics. How I wish two palms would rise in my direction. 

“Come with me.”

Peter Pan was my first. I dreamt of him at the window, a thimble in his hand. It was mine, not Wendy’s. What of Wendy, anyway? She left with him through the nursery window. She took flight and danced with fairies. She met mermaids and battled pirates. She did not stay. What matters, though, is that they never do.

Jay was my first experience.  He stayed for a while. He was the first and last to even stay a while. Everyone leaves at one point or another. 

Everyone leaves. This is a fact. What made it hard was his reason for leaving. 

“I can’t take it anymore!”

He was my first experience. Would I call him a lover? I called him a lover once. Tragedy struck and he did not stay. This is a motif, a reoccurring theme I wish to evade. Slamming doors and lost dial tones are what I wish to forget.

Then there was Di. He had no choice but to leave. A confused mother and a wasted breath and he was gone. He is still in the background. He’s ever waiting behind closed doors that I can never penetrate. Behind a lock I cannot pick. I saw him last two years ago.  I’m a different person than I was then. He is a different person than he was then. Somehow, we’ve grown together separately. What I mean is, six hundred miles have failed to break some unpredictable, unspeakable, unprecedented bond we share. 

I continue to believe there is a chance for us. I refuse to believe otherwise. I will have to wait another three and a half years.

Ae  and I sang together, but before that he sang to me. On my sixteenth birthday, in my winter scarf, he sang to me. He sang with Kay whom I could never have loved. I met Ae my first year of high school.  I had known him before in passing, in small talk, and in fleeting glances but I did not know him even that first year in class together- sitting behind him. I knew him my third year after he had been gone two years. I knew him. I knew him only then- not before, and not since. He used me for my harmonies and showed me intimacy. Then he turned down my vocal track. He traveled west and I have only seen him once since- in my cap and gown.

“Hi. How are you?”

We were suddenly back to small talk but I didn’t want to be. I never want to see him again, if only to avoid the strain in his voice- the inflections that haunt me and torment the veins in my skin. It’s garbled now, his lack of emotion, his passionless greeting. I want to forget but it is only leaving me slowly. 

Ar was the most interesting almost lover I've ever had. He was manic at best. I shared a stage kiss with him. I shared several. I shared a stage kiss and a song. He shared an unwilling bit of affection and a half-hearted tune. This was only at first. When he realized he loved me it was too late. By Christmas that year I wanted to forget. On New Years’ Eve, I couldn’t stand the sight of him. On New Years’ Day, he was asking me to drive him to the train station.

“I need to get away from you. I can’t bear to see you or hear of you. I can’t stand not to be with you. I love you.”

I still have not the slightest inclination why I reacted in such a manner, but I slammed on my breaks. I stared at him for a long time, the color draining from my knuckles on the steering wheel. I had gone deaf for an instant. I recall not what I said but what I meant to say. Perhaps what I meant to say was not any more complimentary than what I actually said, or yelled.

He did not leave by choice. I was the one who coerced him into leaving. I wanted him to leave.

He did not leave for California. He still resides where he was all those years ago. He will probably never leave. 

Es had two different colored eyes. His right pupil had been forcibly removed in a childhood accident. He is still in my life as well. He has been one of the only consistently good people in my life. He has been consistently good to me. He worked in a coffee shop by the river. He was my father’s mentee, and the one to buy me breakfast on the way to an unfamiliar, nearby city. We never spoke of love but I think of him. I still think of him often. I saw him last week. He is well, as far as I can tell. He lives in the capital. I do not.

“You are too considerate, too compassionate.”

This seems to be a problem with me. This seems to be the reason for the leaving in my life.

Of every almost lover I have ever had, it pains me the most to look upon Sti’s face, even if only in pictures. I saw him in October- our month. His new girlfriend was not present. I don’t think I could have bared to see him kiss her, hold her hand.  I would have winced or grimaced- some awful sign to give me away. He ran with me, he chased me in an open field. He laughed with me and made me feel safe. He made a book for my eighteenth birthday. He bound it and sewed it himself. I still write in it. We had pillow talk and quiet nights- that is all I know how to describe it. 

“I have to tell you something. This may seem sudden, but I think I love you. I’ll dance for you tonight.”

We knew each other then. By Christmas he stopped calling. By New Years’ I was unknown to him. The worst part was, he stopped writing me letters. He showed me no more poetry and there was no more pillow talk. There were no secret words, no laughs to be shared between us two- only us two.

Everyone leaves. This is a fact.

A ten –year friendship was broken after Pah and I shared one evening in his room.   A kiss can destroy anything- and everything. 

“You know nothing can come of this, right?”

I wanted to cry out, scream, tear out my own lungs to suppress the pain. There was never a chance for us. I knew, but allowed myself to entangle myself in his sheets nonetheless. It was only a kiss, or a series of kisses- I don’t remember now. March was long ago. I’m in a different place, away from the elementary school where we met- away from the room we shared on lonely Friday nights- away from the walks and the pounding feet under us- away from the barking of dogs and the limp feeling in our limbs. 

He always looked like John Lennon to me. He did have a dark side to him, just as John Lennon had. I always liked that he was a bit broken, a bit stale. I thought he complimented me. He never completed me. He complimented me. We don’t speak anymore. Those ten years we shared are not only broken now. They’ve been destroyed. They were destroyed in a matter of ten minutes- or was it ten seconds?

Tee was my sailor. He was my climber. He was my chance for an adventure. His lack of enthusiasm for politics, general apathy, and carefree nature were all unbeknownst to me. He was promising.   He stayed for a matter of two weeks. This was my most recent encounter with an almost lover. He had a shared desire to always be immersed in a body of water. It’s in us. His vernacular, his aversion for colloquialisms were intriguing at best. He was very eloquent to say the least. He kissed my hand when we met; but then, this was over a year ago. He danced with me in the grocery store. He let me ride his bike as he trotted along beside me. He gathered moon rocks for me; his ascribed mission. He sang to me, although he sang for many. He looked at me. He really looked at me; or was I imagining the intensity in his eyes? He may have been looking. Was he seeing? 

He faded. His leaving was the least abrupt.

There have been many more almost lovers, almost suitors. I don’t need another almost chance, another whim on some fleeting wisp of wind. I need solid ground. The ground beneath me is soft. I need steady, smooth, stable. I need grounded, faithful, charming. I need two palms to be raised to me. I need a request, a dance. But then, I don’t need any of this. These are but wants, desires. I would describe myself as being independent, after all. I do not need a man. I really do not need another almost lover.

Reviews

[x]

Wow....what a fabulous story!!!
I simply loved it. Hmm, where to begin. This is one of the most enjoyable writes I've read in a while.
This piece has wide appeal because of the delightful way the writer has described each and every 'almost lover' and with such sweet, sweet insightful terms. What this reader liked the most was the repetition. I am a big fan of that style of writing because it hammers home a point, highlights the importance of what was just said.
Also, the use of similar words to describe the same thing directly after you have said it adds a clever flow that the reader can enjoy, along with the story. It's like a silent dimension shimmering along within the story which gives it depth and raises it above the ordinary.
It was easy to read and drew the reader in and all could be seen in the imagination.
There is talent displayed here and I am honoured to have experienced it!!

[Amanda Jane]

True story.