Until Next Year

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: November 07, 2016

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Submitted: November 07, 2016



It is raining today.

The windows are weeping today.

And the rain reminds me of you. It reminds me of the days where you and I chased after lost lambs, where we ran naked together in the meadows, unafraid to expose our skin to the evening air. We sought no shelter from the rain while the homeless and the weary hid in concavities along the walls. We fucked on the sidewalk and pitied those who looked at us, some whispering our names in contempt, others shaking their heads for they failed to categorize our act of defiance as either vice or virtue. But we fucked because we wanted to fuck. We fucked because our bodies compelled us to, and we thus threw away all preconceived notions of morality and turned instead to the most primal parts of our being for guidance. It was there where we found true shelter from the world, freed ourselves therefore from false ideals imposed on us by civilization. We were simply two naked animals fucking in the rain.

It is no longer raining.

The windows have stopped weeping.

And as the sun breaks through the clouds I think of the first time you and I talked. I try to recall in vain the details I buried long ago in the graveyard of my tired mind, alongside the corpses of all other dead memories. Now here I am, blowing the dust away and digging memories up that I promised myself not to revisit. But these memories remain vague still, like decayed skeletons of their former selves. I seem to remember now, however, that one day we just got tired of fucking and began to crave something more, something better, something more profound – a different kind of closeness, so to speak. To do so we started to have more conversations, attempting to bridge the gap between our souls. We put words together and formed phrases. We put phrases together and formed sentences. At the time we felt alive as we talked about life, no matter how little we actually knew of it. But when the conversation was over and I watched you walk away, the words we had just used to fill the void between us fell apart before my eyes. A faint echo of our conversation remained, yet I failed to hold on to it, put a stamp on its existence. Another moment escaped my grasp, and I realized then how selfish I had been to want to hold on to time, to freeze all things beautiful and preserve them for myself, and with each step that you took toward the door, I felt all the values withholding my frame crumble inside me.

So what did we do when our words held no weight, when our conversations failed to bridge the gap between our souls? We reverted back to fucking, and we fucked because we felt connected and nothing more. We didn’t need anything more. We fucked because it felt right. We loved because it felt right. And the more times we fucked the more I realized that perhaps I was wrong in believing that there is such a thing as everlasting love, love that can only be found in fairy tales, that perhaps this kind of love has no place in our reality, that perhaps this kind of love in reality manifests itself as possessive and cruel. Regardless, time caught up with us both only to later slip through our fingers. We then went our separate ways and left the first path that we had traveled, our footsteps reaching a premature end before marking the destination of our journey.

Today I sit and reflect upon the last time you and I talked, when you walked inside the café wearing your red dress, your golden hair reaching your shoulders. Suddenly, with little to no effort, all the memories I had thought would forever remain dormant reared their heads again, and all that I wanted in that moment was to grab your hand and take you back to the same path we’d begun traversing long ago, but I knew that we only had two hours to see each other that day.

And when you gracefully sat down across the table and signaled the waiter to come to us, I wanted nothing more than to stretch those two hours into one never-ending moment. I cared little for family and all the mundane responsibilities of adult life – all I desired was to stay right then and there with you. No words, just complete silence. But then I began to fear that if I held on to this beauty, it would lose its value. So I allowed time to pass, for that was all I could really do. Thus we talked like we used to about life, and I listened to you talk about your husband and your career, and you listened to me talk about my wife and kids and how much I loved my family. We talked until you had to go back, and I watched you walk away again, wearing the red dress that emphasized your curves.

And somehow our words didn’t feel empty this time; on the contrary, they carried tremendous weight. So I chased after you as if you were a lost lamb, and right before you opened the door to leave the café I uttered four words that crippled my soul. Our conversation, then, ended as follows:

‘So, until next year?’

‘Yeah, until next year.’


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