Frustra
I swore I'd never love him a long time ago, when we were small children with our illusion worlds and our reality dreams. We were sitting on the warm grass, on the soft and crumbling dirt, and we smiled applecheeked smiles at each other and asked each other to sit in the front row at our weddings. We came up with various jobs for each other, ranging from usher to best man and back again and the only ones that never came up were bride and groom. It didn't occur to us… it never occurred to us. And in our innocent discussions of who would do what, we presented, read, and signed an invisible contract—
We, being sound of body and mind, promise never to fall in love…
And we had no reason to doubt it. We were young, we were disillusioned, we were not in love. And oh, how it hurts now, to see him every morning—his golden skin glowing, his dark eyes laughing, the eternal lock of dark hair dropping carelessly into his face…
But it was a promise, albeit an unspoken one. I do not break my promises.
My name is Lily Evans. Allow me to tell you a story.
His name is James Potter. It always boils down to him in the end… him and the way his eyes crinkle, and the way he laughs, and the way he makes me laugh…
I have been so unfortunate. I know he does not love me. I know it with my depths and arrows and he cannot shield me from it—there are others. There are others with lipsticked smiles and rouge-induced blushes, and while he may not be the sort who seeks merely physical attraction the fact remains that no man can resist these charms for long.
Oh Circe, mermaid siren of the lost Greek mythology, why have you lied to me? To give me this man and to give me this joy in seeing him and then to give him these wretches of yours that throw themselves at his feet. Oh Circe, how cruel are you? You must be aware that he is not handsome, not really. Have you sent these women to punish me?
Oh Circe. You lured boatmen to their deaths and took pleasure in their scarlet blood against the whitecapped seas yet I did not think you would be this cruel.
But it is him. And I can never give an explanation for my love for him, nor can I say when it began, nor can I say when I realized it. In the end this is a long, long wave I am riding, one that sweeps me up in its stealth flow, and oh, when it crashes on the beach I will be miserable. I will be dead, if only of the soul and not of the body—
How can you? How can you give me love of such depths and leave me no way to fathom it?
I am lost. I have nothing to explain and nothing to tell. We will start where the story does not begin and does not end, because there is nowhere else to go.
"How are things going with that Steve guy?" James calls as he enters. I look up at him and brush hair out of my face unconsciously.
"Bad. Dumped him."
"My God, Lily, and you call me a playboy?"
"You are, you know," I say, and wipe off the dish. It is life's little justice, that he should share an apartment for me and I should long for him while he is one paper-thin wall away.
"I don't try to be," he says, and I believe him because it is true.
"I know."
"You need help?"
I need more than help, James.
"No."
"Okay," he agrees, and kicks off his shoes, sinking into the armchair next to him.
"Tough practice?"
"The worst. Windy and a brutal scrimmage."
"You won."
"Of course."
And there is everything to be "of course"-d about it. James is a Quidditch player. I am a waitress at a diner. He has plenty left over after rent; I scrabble to not get evicted. Therein lies the truth of the world—talents are well paid for.
"And you?" he asks. "Tough stint last night?"
"Hell. Okay tips though."
"You know, you could always…"
"I don't have time to look for a new job. What could I do anyway?"
"You were Head Girl, y'know, what about the Ministry?"
"I'm going to Auror night school for a reason, Potter."
"Okay, okay!" He holds his hands up in front of his chest defensively. "I didn't mean anything."
"I know you didn't—just, my God, why couldn't I be good at Quidditch too?" Last night was hell. Several determined middleaged wizards tried to feel me up. Tears sting my eyes. There is nothing I can do about anything. The customer is always right. I feel that I am taken advantage of.
"Hey… calm down." He encircles me with his arms. It is the last thing and the first thing I need. The sadness is replaced with a harsher type of pain. "I didn't mean to make you mad. Look, Lils, I think you're really great."
My God, he is so awful with words.
"Thanks," I say blurrily, and wrench myself from his grasp, "but it's really not worth it."
I walk to my room dizzily, already cursing myself for hurting him—oh, but how many times has he hurt me? Anubis, is this your weight? Libra, are you my scales?
It does hurt.
It hurts so much.
"Lily," comes the voice, hesitant. He has predicted that I am over my anger. Will he never learn that the anger is not with him? Oh I long for reason—he is my heartache, the needle in my back, and yet I cannot be angry with him? Oh love. You have given me desire and taken away my sanity.
"Lily," he says again. "Lily, may I come in?"
Ever the gentleman! Oh, I hate him for it.
"Yes," I whisper, because my willpower is not great enough to refuse him. "All right."
He enters, a wide sliver of light spilling into the darkened room. I am huddled on my bed. He joins me.
"I didn't mean to insult you," he says awkwardly.
"You didn't," I say. "The painters are in."
"My God," he replies, annoyed, "I will only fall for that one so many times."
"Really," I insist, then sigh. "Well… but I'm just not in a good mood."
"Work?" he inquires, and runs his knuckles over my hand gently. James! Will you never cease? You must understand this ache.
"No… you."
"Me?!" he exclaims, and widens those dark dark eyes. My heart breaks. The word 'you' was not planned. My tongue plays tricks with me.
"Yes… no. Never mind." I huddle smaller and pray that he will defy his inquisitive nature and not ask.
I am not liberated. I expected no less.
"Tell me," he commands, then, as an afterthought, "please?"
I uncurl my body and gaze up at him. I know I must tell him. There is always hope, is there not? Can he not love me even the smallest amount? Oh Circe. Send away your distractions. I have others to pray to. Athena, goddess of war and wisdom, give me your courage. Moreover, Athena, give me your wisdom.
"I love you," I say unthinkingly, and it is three small words that trigger his emotions.
Please, oh please, Eros. Where are you now? Greek and Roman gods, sail to me! Eros—Athena—Aphrodite—oh, Circe, I will forgive you, though thou art not a goddess. Oh, love.
"You what?" he says, but I see it in his eyes:
He knew it all along.
He knew it all along and he would not admit his knowledge! Oh denial. That you should land on the only one I wished you to avoid.
"I do," I say. The anger—the sadness—the fear—burns in his eyes.
"You can't! You can't! No!" he insists, and runs from the room with tears of anger.
My gods! That you would abandon me in my crisis! I will never have loved you less. I will never have loved you more.
He is not the only one crying.
Mine are tears of unrequited love.
Mine are tears of pain.
Dawn strikes.
I crawl from bed—I have morning shift at the diner—and dress slowly, regretting last night's actions and, even more so, fearing today's outcome.
He sits at the small kitchen table, red-eyed and sipping coffee.
"I'm cutting work today," he says, not looking at me. "Won't you? There is much to talk about."
"There is nothing to talk about," I reply, and the slump of his shoulders tells me he knows I am right.
"I wish I felt the same way," he says, clenching the mug as if it is his life force. "I want to. I can't."
He is so bad with words. He will not say what I want him to say. Sorry.
"You understand, don't you?" For the first time his eyes shoot to me. "I can't love you. You're my best friend. You were going to be the maid of honor at my wedding," he says weakly. He remembers that, too! Am I saddened or gladdened? Oh ambivalence. "Not… not the bride."
And he is right.
But how cruel you are, my Greek and Roman gods, how cruel you are to teach me this inexplicable love of the soul and not allow me love of the body.
"I know," I say softly, and exit, the door closing firmly behind me. For he is right, enfin, he is correct.
For there is so much, oh so much, left to be said.
*
Notes:
"Having the painters in" is having your period in British slang.
Aphrodite (or Venus): goddess of beauty
Athena: goddess of wisdom and war
Circe: a demi-goddess/witch who lived on a rocky island with her sirens (mermaids), who sang to lure shipmen to their death on the rocks [that's the only way I can think of to sum up her character as presented in this story]
Eros: Cupid
Frustra: Latin for "in vain"
First off, apologies for so many mythology references. I got a tad carried away. I really don't have any explanation for why Lily thinks about these gods and goddesses so many times. This is my angst writing at its worst.
Second off, apologies for the confusion of it. I've been writing a series of short stories written in this manner and it was difficult to make it into something with a plottish thing. You can tell I didn't succeed.
Third off, the "love of the soul and not of the body" bit is based off of Donna Jo Napoli's book "Daughter of Venice." Donna Jo rocks, and I do not intend plagiarism. I should also state, while I'm at it—none of the characters belong to me, and I am not in any way affiliated with JK Rowling, to whom they do belong. Merci.
Fourth off, apologies for the story. I know it's weird. It was going to be better. Ah well. Flame it if you must… I prefer constructive critiscm. In any case, please review? *puppydog eyes*