Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight...
Thanks Mac214, SueBob for their wonderful beta services and to sncmom for reading and giving her valued opinion of everything I throw at her.
She longed for his touch. Not his touch, but his touch, the one she hadn't found. The hands that held her in her youth had been wrong - they had set the pace. Years later the hands she first thought she had loved, revolted her in the end.
Left with emptiness and longing, she cried.
The girl with chestnut-colored hair and porcelain skin sometimes walked aimlessly, sometimes purposely, and searched the face of a passerby for a connection. A connection that would tell her he would be her destiny. She would look into his eyes, wanting to feel a spark within seconds, but would always be disappointed. A gracious smile would quench her desires momentarily.
She'd achingly bury herself in the black print on the ivory pages, falling in love with the hero, and sometimes the villain, praying God would send her an angel. The girl absorbed herself with the melancholy displayed on the silver screen of lost love. But when the unrequited passions were resolved, tears trickled down her cheeks. She left the theater masked by her smile, no one being the wiser, and not until she returned to her empty home would she allow the pain to consume her.
Father Time was cruel as he ruthlessly permitted the hands of the clock to continue to move, one day morphing into the next. "Maybe tomorrow," she would tell herself.
She was an optimist. Always hopeful.
The girl was masterful at keeping her unfulfilled needs at bay. Laughing with friends, performing her familial duties, and functioning as a normal member of society, she escaped the vast darkness that could easily capsize her – if she so chose.
Each night ended with the same routine: she'd wash the day away from her face with warm, soapy water, brush her teeth, comb out her hair, and slip into her soft nightclothes – extra thick socks, always thick socks. The girl would leave the television on, the volume kept at a low setting to ease her to sleep. Not once would she turn off the soft glow exuding from her lamp and switch the alarm clock to 'on' to bid farewell to the day. This would be an admission that she accepted being alone. Jay Leno and Conan O'Brien kept her company at night, therefore stifling the deafening silence. She wondered if either would ever feel honored by the task that had been bestowed upon them.
It had been a long time since the girl was with a man, and even then it hadn't been an act of pure love. At least not the kind she so desired. She had needs and wants, her body craving to feel him inside her. Her temporary solutions to pacify the dull throb between her legs lasted mere minutes. The ache that should have been a welcomed guest had instead, uninvitingly announced itself from time to time. The girl's fantasies starred an old acquaintance and she'd ask herself, "What if?" or married men, strangers to her, who undeniably loved their wives. Sometimes her fantasies involved a faceless suitor as she tried to imagine what it would feel like if he were really there, inside her, filling her with his love.
The daunting repetitiveness of the questions, "How was your weekend? What did you do?" fired at her the beginning of every week had always been answered with, "Fine. Nothing, really. You?" She had become less enthralled by the answers she received as time went on. Her interest in other people's devoted escapades slowly diminishing.
She still thought of herself as an optimist. Yet, she was only sometimes hopeful.
At times she could feel herself falling and turned to glass after suppressing glass of fawn-colored liquid. This never led her to the solace she desired. The feeling of want churning inside her stomach and relentlessly pushing at her heart became the closest feeling she would have to love - something she never had. The comfort and warmth that filled her body after the first glass or two would be pleasant. But after the fourth or fifth glass, she'd find herself crying into her pillow and then cursing the pain in her head and the blinding light of the morning sun.
As days passed, the girl with the skin of a porcelain doll began to feel less. She still laughed with her friends, performed her familial duties, and functioned in society but did so with mechanical tendency. The numbness that began to swallow her was frightening. She didn't want to lose the desire to feel his touch against her skin.
The girl listened a little more intently to the words of songs that spoke of longing. She imagined how the songwriter had felt as he undoubtedly penned his lyrics with a pained heart, convincing herself that she was not alone in her loneliness. She refused to believe that those lyrics were nothing more than words haphazardly, albeit poetically, thrown together for the sake of Generation Y, or worse yet, Generation Z. Truth had to be behind those words.
She would endure romantic comedies and tragedies of the like and force herself to empathize with the characters on screen. Whatever she had to do to feel her heart beat passionately, she would. She would read and re-read the most dreadful of passages about lost love from books that had piled at her bedside table in order to just feel. It became her drug.
She still believed she was an optimist. Yet, she was less hopeful.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. The girl's denial of the prospect of being alone, yet again, by her next birthday began to sway toward acceptance. The once hopeful, doe-eyed girl with shiny chestnut-colored hair had soon purchased creams to battle the impending creases that would inevitably take root in the corners of her eyes.
His touch now categorized as an unrealistic, silly dream rather than a possibility.
She had become a realist.
The girl continued to leave her television on at night, telling herself it had become her routine and not her need. She still desired his touch and sometimes absently rubbed her hand along the empty spot in her oversized bed, still wishing she'd wake up from this reality, that he would really be there come morning.
Questions of what she'd done to deserve to be alone and to never have love in her life ran through her mind on occasion. Maybe she had and missed it. Maybe she unknowingly let the opportunity slip through her fingers, or maybe she had known but ran to a familiar haven. She had never thought of herself as a coward.
The books that had piled on her bedside table collected dust from lack of use. She occasionally cried herself to sleep, not from self-pity, but from her decision to accept, to settle.
She imagined herself a wise, old woman - her chosen path becoming an independent being who found joy through travel and experience. As an old woman, she would speak of her knowledge of history, literature, and a plethora of nothings or somethings, but never about love.
Father Time, once her enemy, had simply become the inevitability of life, a cliché. The pages on her calendar turned at a numbing pace. The girl with the once porcelain skin and the chestnut-colored hair had stopped waiting for his touch to fulfill her the way she had dreamed. Her fantasies of a faceless suitor had weakened. God would not be sending her an angel.
There were still times she grew angry from her solitude, a sign she still cared; she chided herself for being cynical. The girl continued to tolerate the romantic words and acts of love all around her. Whether they came in forms of sable type, violins or heavy bass, or characters more than ten feet tall, there was no escaping them. A small shudder in the pit of her belly told her she still yearned for his touch.
She was still a realist.
The girl's vanity was now littered with clear vials and white jars promising youth and plastic bottles of chocolate-colored liquids to veil the few silver strands of hair rudely popping up on occasion.
She continued to walk aimlessly, sometimes with purpose, no longer searching for the desired spark in his eyes. Gracious smiles satiated her existence momentarily - her destiny fulfilled.
Her preparatory visits to bookstores and faraway places had begun. The girl would disregard the romances, steering herself toward something more interesting, something distracting. She would fill her mind and her body with precious offerings from another culture, how she was meant to live.
Nightly routines were replaced by the daily wonderment of collecting funny-shaped leaves from oddly formed trees, soil from the entrance of a revered edifice, or a paper menu from where Brie de Meaux had excited her palate for the first time.
Father Time quickened the hands of his proverbial clock. She recognized this by the faint changes in her own hands… her hands that would never feel his. "Maybe in another lifetime," she would tell herself.
She was a hopeful realist.
She had been so preoccupied by her race against Father Time, her thoughts entranced by the adventures of young heroes and heroines so much younger than she, that the girl hadn't noticed what caused the fine down on her arm to stand on end.
The girl with the once chestnut-colored hair and skin of a porcelain doll looked at a boy with sea green eyes. "Do that again," she asked.
He satisfied her request. Not he, but he.
She hadn't expected it to be so subtle. The absence of damp palms and assumed melodic happenings in the background confused her. Instead, a slow burn had started in the same area of his touch and traveled throughout her body at the rate of a lotus flower uttering good morning to the summer sun.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.
The girl shared photographs of her past and he did the same, revealing his once copper-colored hair.
An old acquaintance or men, whom she did not know, no longer starred in her fantasies. The boy with sea green eyes and once copper-colored hair filled her with his love.
The girl drank glass after glass of fawn-colored liquid with the boy as they sang songs written for those who found love. When a drop of the liquid sprayed her white satin dress, he wiped it away. His hands soothed the pain in her head as she cursed the bright morning sun in jest.
The clear vials and white jars now shared space on the girl's vanity with a comb and essentials that belonged to him. Her nightly routine resumed; she'd wash the day away with warm, soapy water, brush her teeth, and slip into her soft nightclothes – extra thick socks, still thick socks. When she reached for her comb, his hand held it, smoothing her hair for her. Those who had once kept her company, easing her to sleep, were no longer invited. She wondered if Mr. Leno and Mr. O'Brien would be saddened, their services rendered null and void.
The girl engrossed herself with the melancholy that had been displayed before her on the silver screen while his hand held hers. If the unrequited passions stayed unresolved, she would assure those on the screen, "Maybe tomorrow."
Deep down she always knew she was an optimist.
The girl and the boy filled their bodies and minds with precious offerings from other cultures, collecting funny looking rocks, white sand from a river's edge, and a paper menu from where she fed him Brie de Meaux for the first time.
She would share her favorite tales only found in black print on ivory pages with him, reading certain passages aloud while he touched her, held her. She thanked God for her angel.
Father Time never took a rest. The girl welcomed each birthday, each passing year meant the longer she could love him.
Content with the passion and love that filled her, she wept.
The old, wise woman with the once chestnut-colored hair and porcelain skin and the man with the once copper-colored hair and sea green eyes shared their knowledge of literature and history as they laughed with family and friends.
She was an optimist. Forever hopeful.
She found joy through experience and travel, her path a gift. She will happily share a plethora of nothings and somethings with anyone who is so inclined. And always… always ask her about love.
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a/n Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.