The Point of Intersection

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

Submitted: August 18, 2018

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Submitted: August 18, 2018

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HER POINT OF VIEW

She loved how among his OCD’s was counting the seven freckles on her right shoulder, the moment before embracing her and falling into sleep. Flattered and amused she was by the quiet, hardly noticeable element of poetry to their bond - not luxury, but minimalistic poetry, a sense similar to that of a good old hopeless romantic writing his ode to nearly every element of nature in sight. He didn’t talk much, but his mimics and body language gave away a lot about what he wanted to say. She liked how a glance, just one mutual glance into each other’s eyes made his scattered thoughts line up into Shakespearean stanzas. How, as his eyes slid across her skin, his mind would be left stunned not so much by the lines of her shape, but even more so by the flocks of her hair and how funny it fell on one side of her face only. The way he would hold her tiny palms in his large hands of a pianist, traced through with dramatic contours of blue veins.She liked how he had no hinges of secretiveness around him, and she could feel safe.

Sometimes she’d find him too nerdy and lame, secretly wishing he’d wear a more matching flannel to their dates; or thought, undoubtably with guilt, that he would look better without his beard. Occasionally, she’d slip it to him as a joke, cautious that it might’ve come out rude and intrusive - and regret it five minutes later. She loved how whatever she said, he seemed to listen to her - with interest, respect and devotion. His eyes demonstrated a comprehension of every word. Sure, he’d dive into his own world occasionally, or forget to take out his headphone, as he’d reply “Yeah”, “Of course” rather mechanically, but that was rare.

And that was what she admired. She had a tendency to notice the many little details around her - and she liked a great part of what she noticed about him. Most of all, she liked the love he made her experience. The child love that a kindergartener gracefully gives to the prettiest girl in class - the one he would write a valentine for, scribbling two twisted hearts with a pink crayon. The love that a father gives his baby daughter, leaning over her crib to kiss her cheek, smiling, as he whispers “Daughter, you are beautiful.” - all being the kind of love she has never experienced for herself before. The love she was dismissed from too many times, so she had to learn to dismiss the tears and pity, replacing them with aristocratic coldness and gaudy pride. The love she made herself believe she never needed. Deep down, she has grown to trust she isn’t worthy of being a princess to be rescued by a brave knight - rather a broken toy for the  eyes of vultures. To her, fairytales were far from real, and she no longer regretted voluntarily not being the heroine of anyone’s story. Times have changed, and she has built the strongest castle walls around her. No, they were not to be torn down any time soon, even with his presence around - after all, she still knew her own worth and weaknesses better than she knew him.

However, step-by-step, week by week, she willingly let him more and more into her world.

 

 

HIS POINT OF VIEW

 

He liked her with all her OCD’s - and all of her quirks. For example, staring at her phone daily for at least thirty minutes as they’d lie in bed, ready for sleep. Saying “Please don’t think I’m one of these girls”, as she applied her eyeliner and mascara in front of the boudour mirror. Needlessly specifying “It’s not that I’m a tomboy” every time she wore her Adidas sneakers to a cafe date. Making sure her name was spelled “Zooey” and not “Zoey” on her cup of cinnamon latte from a Starbucks barista. Giggling nervously, after she presented herself as “Zooey, with the double O.” Tapping her fork three times on the side of the plate, before she started eating her grilled chicken with vegetables - complaining how they never place sauce on the side and serve it mixed together - a relatively close one to some other OCD he couldn’t even remember. Some of her bad habits - he couldn’t stand, yet backed up by everything else she possessed about her persona... Boy, did he promise to himself that he was willing to put up with a million more of her funky habits. They even started to become special. 

He was aching to read her pages, like a bookworm reads his favorite story. Everyone else was so empty. A deceiving cover, one that you think speaks for itself, with a pure, angelic glance. One that you think can’t fool you - and the first three pages already are a disappointment, making the title and cover page appear so misleading. Yet here she was. With probably the most mysterious labyrinth of mind he ever endured. In addition - what a surprise! - her pages matched well with her cover page. He sometimes couldn’t believe it, and wished he could sneak peak through the rest of the layers that her mind was. “She can’t be a non-fiction piece? There’s gotta be a hoax somewhere.”

At first, he secretly wished she was just a bit less thoughtful and witty. At the same time, that was the reason he held on to her so tight, and refused to let go. Her never-ending sarcasm was the reason he felt a permanent split desire to either poke her in the shoulder or go down on one knee for her right that second. But he wasn’t the one to rush - he was rather curious to see what else her vocabulary list and her witty brain has in store. With the galaxy of charades that her mind was, something new unraveled every time. 

He didn’t like to argue with her. Or - shall I rather say - he didn’t like it when she would argue with him. Some of her musical taste, her political views differed from his so drastically. For him, it wasn’t a big deal. For her, it was - or so it seems. Whenever she’s spend hours ranting about how she feels about the vice-president election, or the population of Malaysia in 1967, with all his attempts to understand why it mattered so much - he just didn’t get it. He sometimes felt an urge to hold her close and whisper “I don’t care about whether we both like indie rock or not, I’m with you for a reason!” He felt strong as he put his arm around her neck, yet somewhere deep down his soul, he admitted that she was sometimes his backbone even more than vice versa.

 

Just like two different waters meeting, two rivers from completely different sources have flown together and not mixed, but sided to stream in the same direction - with plenty of bumps and cracks on their way. There were no points of intersection, or so it seemed at first. But even despite all that, when their OCD’s clashed and their quirks found a match point - it didn’t feel that far from what Seuss once entitled a mutual weirdness.


© Copyright 2018 Alexandra Medinga / Sunsets. All rights reserved.

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