The Wind
The wind… It's a funny thing. Sweeps up behind you and tackles you in a fierce hug, one that is so unpredictable that you have no time to shrug your shoulders deeper into your cloak, or not even the briefest of seconds to brace yourself.
You're like the wind.
I'm alone one day, in the sixth floor corridor, on a bench and brooding. The window beside me is glass and blurred, sending grayish shards of sunlight in broken rays to cascade down the floor. Each strand of light seems to fit, placed perfectly on the stone floor which is like the outline for the strange puzzle, and I can only stare.
I haven't even the shortest moments to prepare myself for your biting remark. It's as swift as the wind, though I had forgotten to mention—you're just as cold.
The indifference that falls so perfectly on my face, my round glasses acting as a barrier for that impending glare etched into your eyes, is feigned. I'd like nothing more than to destroy you and make you hurt.
But I have learnt many things—you can't destroy the wind. Not even the fastest kick or most cutting remark can deter you from your game. The games of making me twist and pant with anger.
Though today is different, somehow. The wind is retreating and the sun grows stronger. Soft shards of sunlight expand into bright, golden rays and the room seems to glitter instantly as waves of light was over us.
You're like the wind, yes, but today, the day is warm. There isn't even a breeze to cool you off, and you stare at me. You're lost.
I only smile, because I understand. The wind is unpredictable, as are you. The game you play is never-ending, though there is always room for a well-deserved break. You explain to me that you hate me, though the ways your silver eyes sparkle with admiration betray you.
The wind has only one flaw. It cannot hide, always rushing forward.
The silence that follows your voice is long and stretches over us uncomfortably. I stare at you awkwardly, blinking with slight bewilderment. Then, finally, just as you're hoping, I reply.
"I hate you, too."
You look content with this- happy even. Then you turn to me, and watch me for a moment. After your eyelashes flutter open and then close in a few elegant movements, you smile and the wind seems to pick up again.
In one fluid motion, I am pinned under you, my back aching against the uncomfortable wood of the bench. My throat is clogged and I wonder briefly if you're going to kill me. It was the logical explanation, wasn't it? What wasn't logical was the kiss that followed, and I try to deny that I enjoy the flicking of your tongue against my own and the intoxicating smell of your skin.
The wind is unpredictable, not logical.
You're like the wind.
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