Dew, Dirt and Dreams
Ino knows love when she sees it. She knows the ingredients to every romance, knows the patterns and well-worn pathways. She knows the types which attract each other, the personalities that invariably click, and the interests that always coincide to lead to deeper, more mutual interest. There isn't a day that goes by where Ino fails to analyze each opportunity as it presents itself. The blonde with the sinfully inviting smile will be attracted to her similar, yet oh so feminine features. She will pick delicately at salad after salad as he flaunts her at a different restaurant every evening. The no-nonsense, die-hard life-of-the-party will integrate himself perfectly into her own lifestyle, and they will wildly fling the nights away from pulsing dance-floor to dance floor until their shared thrill no longer pumps in rhythm to the music.
Oh yes, Ino knows love.
Ino knows what love smells like. She knows the deep, masculine scent of musk and earth, and the sun-dried scent of sweat. She knows the sweet, light scent of wildflowers from the easy-going ones; the deep, heady scent of lilies and jasmine from the exotically passionate few; and the classic perfume of rich, dark roses from those every-day Romeos. Ino knows the piney scent of shampoo wafting across the table over breakfast, and the aftershave lingering on her cheek when she says goodbye.
Ino knows love.
Ino knows what love feels like. She remembers the sleek leather of a jacket as her hands roam freely, comfortably, and trace the seams. She feels the slick sheen of sweat as she runs her fingers through short, dampened hair on the dance floor, the corner booth, and wherever else the night leads. She knows the warmth that pools in her stomach every time she can't breathe and the adrenaline that pushes her to kiss back-harder-and fight for that breath. The weight of arms wrapped around her in a tight, filling embrace come as easily to her mind as the ache that lingers once she is alone once more.
Ino knows love.
Ino knows what love sounds like. She knows the thick, pulsing thrum of music that makes her believe she can do anything, be anyone, and cast all thoughts aside. She knows the sound of a racing heartbeat, of a purposeful step, of an indiscernible whisper across her skin doing sinful things to her own heartbeat. She still hears the fading thrum of a party as the car rumbles like white noise beneath her. She knows the rustling of sheets and the hitching of breath. She recalls the sound of a shower turning off, of coffee gurgling in the mornings, and the soft padding of bare feet stumbling across carpet. She can never forget the soft click of the door closing and never opening again.
Ino knows love.
Ino knows what love tastes like. She knows the burning rush of a cocktail and the taste of acrid sweat. She knows the stale remnants of a breath-mint layered with alcohol and tobacco, the taste of nervously licked lips and heated glances. She remembers the spearmint of toothpaste shared and of slightly-burnt toast. She fails to forget the taste of tears.
Ino knows love.
He is not love, and he cannot be. He smells of grass and unmade beds, of dew and dirt and wood. He does not bring flowers, nor leave musk lingering on her shirt, and she knows he has used cherry-blossom shampoo since they were twelve. He does not look like golden sin, nor carry himself with poise and arrogance. His hair is long and never damp--sweat would require effort. His kisses are hard but not threatening, with a demand that speaks to her need instead of preying on it, and his eyes are dark and confused and self-despising when he realises he no longer thinks before acting around her.
Ino knows love, and he is not love.
He does not sound like throbbing music, nor breakfast cooking, nor throbbing heat. He does not taste like salt, nor alcohol, nor cheap mints. He does not feel like sheltering arms but instead acceptance, and Ino knows these cannot be love.
But she hopes, she dreams, she knows--
Maybe, just maybe this is something better than love.