What they write books about

Drunken mess, a broken bottle. Ciders and vodka, some gin and some sprite. Music I don’t understand but groove to clumsily. Him sitting next to me, looking at me so intently.

“I really, really like you. You’re so beautiful, and so crazy.” he says to me and I smile. I had seen this coming, and I hadn’t held back. I had decided to trust this one, and go out alone with him when nobody else would that night. It was Fez Bar Friday, and the tradition had to be honoured. It was more than that, though. I wanted to spend some time with him, getting drunk. For once, I trusted someone enough to let my guard down.

He kissed me on the cheek, and I smiled. It felt good, warm. Not pushy, not demanding. Just a safe show of affection. I look into his eyes and then place my head on his shoulder, as I had loved to do often. His arms around me, talking about things. Things I don’t quite remember, things I do remember well. Things not so important, things about other boys, things about politics. And then, he wants something.

We step out of the bar, and cross the streets towards the stores. It’s probably past midnight, but probably not. I don’t know. But I was cold, and had my hand in his, trying not to shiver. We walk and then I turn around to him. He looks down, and I look him in the eyes. It was the empty streets and the stars that witnessed magic that night. I, for one, am glad only the two of us will ever get to tell the tale.

And there we went, so attached to each other, so aware of impending doom. We knew it was a bubble we were living in, it would burst come next week. Because the sparks of today would turn into fire tomorrow, and it would turn us into ash. But in those few days, nothing mattered, not even the inevitable end.

So we had what others call a fling. So special for me, and I would imagine for him. A story of two people, never meant to be together, but inseparable at the same time. This is what, I thought to myself while staring into the sky, people write books about.



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