They did not know each other.
He knew nothing, other than old gossip that wafted through the halls, of the pain she felt and she knew very little of the pain he caused. Ultimately, they were strangers. Maybe that's what brought them together. She knew in the end, it wouldn't make sense. Not that these types of things ever did. She wanted to laugh out loud at how cliché this all was.
It was a Sunday. The day I first officially spoke to him was a Sunday. It was a sunless morning that could easily be spent doing meaningful activities such as attending a morning mass, but my mother no longer believed in God. She seemingly believed the effects of vodka had a much more stimulating aftereffect than the words of a preacher. I could scarcely bare the sights of her drunken company these days, so here I was enduring an almost impossibly cold wind that wafted past my pale cheeks, forcing those red curls of mine to obscure my view every so often. This proved almost irritating, for it was quite difficult to read and discreetly people-watch when you were blinded.
I was perched, Chuck-clad feet carefully tucked beneath my bottom, on the most commercial park bench imagined, perfectly designed with emerald steel armrests and obscene words etched into the wooden planks. I could feel the frosty air practically attack my crimson polished fingers when I warily slipped my left hand out of the warmth of my sweater pocket to fiddle with the task of turning the page of a book I had clutched at eyelevel.
It is funny how when one is left alone, thoughts surface. All the worries of our worlds rise in distinctive clusters around our heads that bind us from moving forward. All thanks to the silence and lack of activity we usually can preoccupy our minds with. It was this sunless, Sunday morning I realized I was sick of waiting for the boy with the rusty guitar and mangled heartstrings.
I am not a naïve person. I know how these things start, right down to the picture-perfect beginning. A few catty words and choice grins and it's usually over our heads by then. Another thought occurred that it was just my luck or maybe it was my weakness that would cause me to stick around waiting regardless. I shook my head and turned the page.
He came back yesterday. Although his wry smiles and dry laughter was not meant for me, belonging to another girl and I had come to terms with that sole fact-- something happened. This boy who didn't belong to me; this boy who chose fun over empathy, afraid of feeling something real again; this boy who took his guitar and his head of dreams and went on his way; the boy who would never look at me that way: He kissed me.
A short, desperate kiss it was. His lips were rough against mine in surprise. He had nothing left in him, so that kiss was if he was trying to grasp for whatever was left of me. But I wanted to keep it. As much as I wanted to help him, I had to put myself first. I had to push him away before I could say no. Before he would gain access to any more of me, because the stubborn love I held for him would indeed soon take over and let him take anything that was left of me. I still remember how he tastes. I turned another page.
All I remember is that I had to get out of that house…out of his face and out into the air that could possibly cleanse this head of mine and allow me to think clearly. I knew in the back of my mind this is what I wanted all along. But something was different. It lurked in his eyes. When my gaze fell upon those dark orbs of his I didn't see my reflection; I saw a ghost—a lost cause of yesterday's desires.
It's almost amusing how we let this happen to ourselves over and over again.
It seems as though I rushed out of the house in a motion so fluid I do not even recall hearing the door slam. All I can remember are my worn, battered chucks hitting the pavement which seemingly cut off any words he tried to babble out as an excuse.
I am almost prompted to laugh at the patterns that have been paved. I'm the girl who everybody leaves and then remembers months later that I was standing behind them all along. But it wasn't the time to turn around and come get me. It was too late. And he was too gone. Maybe in some other life I'd be up to fixing this. Today I'll read my book in silence. In peace.
Maybe somebody in the heavens was toying with me—like they'd toss bad boy after even more undeserving boy in front of me just to see which one I'd choose…Which life I'll regret later… Which one will stay for once.
There was a boy a little ways away from me, squatting on his haunches, leaning against a brick wall on the other side of the park. I knew him by face. His dirty-blonde strands grew low and their locks filtered into his eyes. Those narrowed eyes filled with mischief or pain…with something like a secret. In a fluid motion that lasted a second, yet felt like it was stretched into hours, his eyes flicked in my direction. Those blue, sullen orbs locked with mine.
But I couldn't—didn't want to—maintain it. I knew this is how it all started. So I shifted my gaze back to my book. I wasn't up for making any soulful connections or mistakes that day. It was probably too late though, since I heard his footsteps pound their way towards me, behind me. And I'd probably look like a lunatic if I tried to flee, arms flailing, before I made anymore mistakes. I exhaled and decided I didn't care. Or at least I'll make it seem as though I don't. Care, that is.
I remember he was wearing blue that day. With khakis. Not particularly one of my favorite shades; I caught a glimpse of the pressed material when I felt the weight of the auburn-colored planks sink slightly when he sat down next to me.
I reckon he hardly noticed I was next to him, for when he spoke, a soft rasp that was barely above a whisper, it was more to him than to me.
"They don't understand," he fumed, gritting his pearly whites. Way to be vague, kid.
Barely shifting my gaze from the page my eyes currently fell upon I replied softly, "But they're all we have." I looked at him once, quickly. "We're not living up to our expectations, are we? You haven't made a pass at me yet."
"And you haven't bit my head off yet," he replied softly and I turned away.
"What was God thinking when he sat the perv next to the cutter?" I mused softly into the text I was holding.
I felt him smile, but he didn't ask my name. He didn't ask because he probably already knew; I didn't ask his because I was pretending I didn't care.
The breeze blew on, nipping at my skin. And we sat there in a comfortable silence, sinking in our own pools of mistakes and broken dreams.