I cannot remember it perfectly, the exact moment I fell completely and
miserably in love with Lily. Maybe it was not one moment. Maybe I'd been in
love with her my whole life and too blind to see it. I was a fairly blind
bastard then. As a matter of fact, I still am. And as it was, it crept upon
me slowly, almost like age creeps, slowly and unnoticed until it's right on
top of you. I can use this metaphor because age too has crept upon me. At
38, I already feel an old man, though I've been told 38 is too young to
feel this way. But to the point, I do remember the first time it truly
dawned me how lovely she really was and the feeling was comparable to
noticing the first white hair as it crept up through the mess of black.
The moonlight lit off of her white dress, a crown of fresh leaves and rose petals adorning her hair. Her hand reaching out over the boat to touch the cool water, and she turned her eyes and brushed a piece of red hair from her face. She smiled, and the image of this smiling goddess still haunts my memories and daydreams, though my nightly dreams are made of different stuff.
And in the dusky darkness it took only that moment to realize a feeling I'd felt my entire life. It was rather like a small explosion in my head, though you may laugh to hear it. And when the smoke cleared everything was the same, except there was Lilly. Lilly. A different Lily. Like my whole life had been a black and white photograph and she had put on a scarlet dress. And from then on, nothing could be the same.
Lily came from a remarkable family, a family completely parallel to my own. And by parallel I mean they were opposite, not a thread like my dark family which I look back on now with a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. No, but her family was different. They were light and happy and rich, and they lived on an estate about half a mile away from my own home.
We had discovered each other at a young age, we must have been very, very young actually because I cannot ever remember not knowing Lily. A small wood separated our suburban homes, and it not being large, we crossed it often. Or, rather, I crossed it often; for though I came regularly to Lily's home it was seldom that she came to see mine. Not that I blamed her.
The night I spoke of was late August, and her family had a habit of throwing huge elaborate parties at that time of year, the kind with music and food and lights and sometimes muggle fireworks, for they were muggles, the lot of them. And there would be white tables and chairs and candles in little white bags around the large grounds and altogether it was a most romantic experience. And there would be a live band, or a quartet or some sort of live music and the women dressed in their finest gowns and the men in their black ties, and they drank fine champagne and ate cheese and bread, and little tarts, and had rich wine. The laughter of the happy and content guests filled the lakeside property and starlight led the couples out under the sky to dance in the grass under the moon.
And when I was young I went every summer. I never cared much for crowds, but it was ok because to me there was only one person: Lily. And so that night Lily and I found a little white raft and pushed it out onto the little lake and floated away from the noise and the people. We lay and ate tarts we had pinched from the caterers like all the summers before.
I was sixteen. She was less, and her gown that year was a brilliant white flowing thing which fit her body so smoothly and elegantly it made the full moon hanging in the night look dull and plain. She was lying on her side with one hand in the water, and the other was at her side, and I lay beside her on my own side so that I was inches away from that thin sleek body. I remember the way she smelled. It was jasmine I think, maybe ginger. Oh such a light spring smell, it hung around her like a hallo and made me want to be always closer. She was humming along as the band played the popular tune, and her eyes were closed in the moonlight.
And I fell. In love. It was like being hit with Avada Kedavra, except it had the opposite effect. A realization, a pang of something wonderful right down to the pit of my stomach and I took a little breath. She opened her eyes and looked at me, and smiled. "The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?" She said, rolling onto her back so that she was inches away from me. Jasmine and ginger filled my nostrils and made my head swim.
"Yes." I breathed, thinking that it didn't compare to her. " 'A pearl on the cheek of night'" I quoted.
She laughed, and looked at me sideways, one hand still trailing in the water. And then I did something, which I would dream about forever, for as long as I lived, after this night, again and again. I kissed her. It happened so slowly. I leaned close to her and brought a hand to her cheek, brushing the hair away from her freckled face. Then, slowly, I put the hand behind her neck and pulled us together, our lips meeting for a fleeting second, and then it was over. Not one of those Hollywood kisses you see in the films, but better. Oh, so much better. Her eyes were wide with excitement and bewilderment, and then the boat hit the shore. Thud. And we both were fully awake again, as if what had just happened was a wonderful vision. And we both slid quietly off the raft and the moment was passed.
The moonlight lit off of her white dress, a crown of fresh leaves and rose petals adorning her hair. Her hand reaching out over the boat to touch the cool water, and she turned her eyes and brushed a piece of red hair from her face. She smiled, and the image of this smiling goddess still haunts my memories and daydreams, though my nightly dreams are made of different stuff.
And in the dusky darkness it took only that moment to realize a feeling I'd felt my entire life. It was rather like a small explosion in my head, though you may laugh to hear it. And when the smoke cleared everything was the same, except there was Lilly. Lilly. A different Lily. Like my whole life had been a black and white photograph and she had put on a scarlet dress. And from then on, nothing could be the same.
Lily came from a remarkable family, a family completely parallel to my own. And by parallel I mean they were opposite, not a thread like my dark family which I look back on now with a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. No, but her family was different. They were light and happy and rich, and they lived on an estate about half a mile away from my own home.
We had discovered each other at a young age, we must have been very, very young actually because I cannot ever remember not knowing Lily. A small wood separated our suburban homes, and it not being large, we crossed it often. Or, rather, I crossed it often; for though I came regularly to Lily's home it was seldom that she came to see mine. Not that I blamed her.
The night I spoke of was late August, and her family had a habit of throwing huge elaborate parties at that time of year, the kind with music and food and lights and sometimes muggle fireworks, for they were muggles, the lot of them. And there would be white tables and chairs and candles in little white bags around the large grounds and altogether it was a most romantic experience. And there would be a live band, or a quartet or some sort of live music and the women dressed in their finest gowns and the men in their black ties, and they drank fine champagne and ate cheese and bread, and little tarts, and had rich wine. The laughter of the happy and content guests filled the lakeside property and starlight led the couples out under the sky to dance in the grass under the moon.
And when I was young I went every summer. I never cared much for crowds, but it was ok because to me there was only one person: Lily. And so that night Lily and I found a little white raft and pushed it out onto the little lake and floated away from the noise and the people. We lay and ate tarts we had pinched from the caterers like all the summers before.
I was sixteen. She was less, and her gown that year was a brilliant white flowing thing which fit her body so smoothly and elegantly it made the full moon hanging in the night look dull and plain. She was lying on her side with one hand in the water, and the other was at her side, and I lay beside her on my own side so that I was inches away from that thin sleek body. I remember the way she smelled. It was jasmine I think, maybe ginger. Oh such a light spring smell, it hung around her like a hallo and made me want to be always closer. She was humming along as the band played the popular tune, and her eyes were closed in the moonlight.
And I fell. In love. It was like being hit with Avada Kedavra, except it had the opposite effect. A realization, a pang of something wonderful right down to the pit of my stomach and I took a little breath. She opened her eyes and looked at me, and smiled. "The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?" She said, rolling onto her back so that she was inches away from me. Jasmine and ginger filled my nostrils and made my head swim.
"Yes." I breathed, thinking that it didn't compare to her. " 'A pearl on the cheek of night'" I quoted.
She laughed, and looked at me sideways, one hand still trailing in the water. And then I did something, which I would dream about forever, for as long as I lived, after this night, again and again. I kissed her. It happened so slowly. I leaned close to her and brought a hand to her cheek, brushing the hair away from her freckled face. Then, slowly, I put the hand behind her neck and pulled us together, our lips meeting for a fleeting second, and then it was over. Not one of those Hollywood kisses you see in the films, but better. Oh, so much better. Her eyes were wide with excitement and bewilderment, and then the boat hit the shore. Thud. And we both were fully awake again, as if what had just happened was a wonderful vision. And we both slid quietly off the raft and the moment was passed.