Perfect girl

He lay on his back and stared at the sky. A glittering veil was covering the black. The moon was shining brightly; not whole yet. He felt the same, not whole. He had met his twin flame. He had loved her; made love to her. And then, then he had pushed her away. Dealing with those emotions was too complicated. And he was not a complicated man. He just knew that being with her felt like destroying himself. Being without her felt like missing a part of his soul. Her presence scared him. Almost as much as the knowledge that the sky is infinite and time is finite. He couldn’t admit that he was running away from her. It was easier to manipulate her into thinking that she was pushing him away. The truth was, he was missing her. He was missing the way she made his soul lighter and his thoughts less heavy. He missed how she inspired his work, and the sex. Yes, he missed how it felt to fill her out. He had had many girls and women in his life. They had never felt like her on his skin. Her kisses were like magic, her orgasms were bliss, his own release couldn’t be compared to anything he had ever experienced in bed. An intimacy that spread onto many levels connected them. From the moment they had first spoken, something had clicked. Profoundly. And now he was running away. He had an ugly soul, an empty heart, heavy thoughts. Others had described him that way. And he couldn’t deny it. But she didn’t care. She seemed to like all the facets of him. The good and the bad. And he was not prepared for that. He was not prepared to open himself to her, to let her see who he was. Who he is. Bare. Nowhere to hide his imperfections. He had always wanted to be seen, and to be able to be himself without getting strange looks. Now that he had met someone comfortable and sure enough of themselves to accept him for who he was, and he couldn’t handle it.

He slapped the grass next to him in frustration. Since when was he such a coward? Since when was he lamenting to have no one to love him, knowing full well that she was there. Was he so used to being hurt and rejected that being wanted and accepted scared him? That woman. She was addictive. Always on his mind. There was that fear of going back to her and letting her see his vulnerable side. There was that irrational panic that she could use it against him.

Until now, she never had. She had proven that she was trustworthy. He hated how much she completed him. He loved it too.

A raindrop landed on his forehead breaking his thoughts. From the porch his wife called him to get out of the rain, and go inside. He grunted a response and got off the lawn just in time, before the light dribble became a rainstorm. Minutes ago he had stared at the clear night sky. He had been sunken so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed the clouds hiding the stars. Standing on the porch, he kept looking into the dark. She was his dark. Behind him, his wife was standing with a dishtowel. She was beautiful. He loved her. But she didn’t understand. She was not the one to fill that empty space in his heart. She was not the one who knew every secret, nothing withheld. But she was enough. She had to be. He took a quick look at his phone. He had no messages but he liked to see and know that she was online. Her profile picture was beautiful. For the moment, it was all he got from her. It was all he deserved. But he wanted more. He wanted all of her. Even if it meant leaving the safety of his family. After all, She was the one. His twin flame.

Another drunk letter to a stranger

Dear Stranger,

Another six week until we meet again. Am I allowed to admit that I am scared shitless? What if you don’t like me anymore? And what if we will not meet in the end? Gosh… We haven’t spoken in weeks. How are we supposed to be able to see each other face to face. With our past standing between us? I am not the woman you think I am. I need your encouragement to see this through. You’ll be 45 in two weeks. You are a man who saw the world and lived two lives. Me, I am 24 and inexperienced in most parts of life. I don’t want to blame my past, but if you grow up the way I did… Ha… Who cares? Not you. Yeah… Those words hurt. You should care. You really should. It’s me we’re talking about. The one you’ll let slip through your fingers. And you will regret it for the rest of your life. I don’t want your love. I just want you to see me, the way I see you. I see through your bullshit although I am not visible at the moment for you. It’s my own choice. Fear and hope. Please forget me. Please don’t ever forget me. Six weeks. I want to put my nose against your neck and feel your breath against my skin. Your eyes on me. Your words, just for me. We are cowards. We will stand in the same room, wondering if the other is there or if the other is thinking about us, but we will not get in touch. We will lose the opportunity. Maybe the only one we’ve got. One chance. And the way I know us, we will blow it. Or maybe that’s just me, yeah, maybe that’s just me.

Where are you now? I haven’t seen nor heard anything from you in such a long time. Please be okay. Please don’t disappear on me. Please don’t forget me.

As long as there is cum in my balls and a mind in my brain, I will never forget you.

Still the most romantic thing I was ever told. I wish it was true.

Dear stranger, six more weeks. Do something. Court me. I will be yours, there’s no doubt about it. You just have to want me again. Please want me.

Gosh… I am pathetic, pleading and begging…

I will never send this letter your way. Doesn’t mean that I am not thinking these things.

Oh and in case you were wondering. I am well. Thank you for asking.

Lots of love,

C

Throwback

I just stumbled over this… I wrote it last October and I think, it feels real and intense and maybe even powerful. I can’t remember that I wrote it, but it is definitely my writing and my fictional character in this. Can I be blunt? I read this and I teared up and I don’t know why. It’s the sole reason why I share this link and hope that you will be touched by this too.

https://micqu.wordpress.com/2016/10/26/next-november/

Thank you.

Dear stranger

Dear stranger,

It has been a while, hasn’t it? May was the last time we spoke. May 8th. Not that I am keeping track, but I remember the day. Since then, I deleted your number from my phone. Not because I despise you or don’t want us to be in touch, but you told me to wait for you and that’s what I am doing. Waiting has never been my strongest quality and I know that I am waiting in vain. This – this entire situation is harder on you than it is on me. I guess it should be the other way around, but I can’t change it. And I don’t regret it either. Sure, for you everything is different and I can’t pretend to understand you, your motives, your reasons, or your actions. I can’t and that’s a fact. Once, we agreed that we need to be friends and trust one another. Maybe we trust each other but I don’t think that we are friends. We never shared anything that really mattered. We never were in love. Just in lust from time to time. And with our lust, desire, passion, we broke limits and boundaries. Maybe a couple times too often? Yes, maybe. Certainly. Some of it was my fault. I enabled you and didn’t stop you when I should have said no. I gave you my control when I should have taken control. I let you be the dominant one when I should have been. I write this right now because I do miss you. For a week now, I wasn’t sleeping right and I blame it on you. Your presence in my mind. And I worry. Also, I want to know how you are. And selfishly, I also want you to remember me. You will never forget me. I know that for sure and yet… I want to touch you again. I like your social media posts just to make you see that I am still there. Maybe we will never speak again. Maybe we will be an active part of each other’s lives soon again – truth is, it doesn’t matter. We will always have our memories. You will be a memory. And in many years time when I can grandchildren, I will tell them all about you. (The censored version! But come to think about it, then there isn’t much to talk about.) I wish that my presence how ever short or intense left some sort of impact on your life. Preferably a good one. I will never know what you won’t tell me.

I am still there…

xx

next November

​What a difference a year makes, don’t you think. Last year, you spent two weeks in Australia for work. You called daily. Sometimes twice. I remember that one call, when you were crying because you missed your daughter. We talked a lot that night. About your kid and her mother and about my kids and the way I raise them. You said that you liked the way I talked about them and it was the first time you called me beautiful. Another time when we talked, it was my turn to cry. The past had caught up and an apology had been issued. It had meant so much that I teared up when I told you. And you listened patiently. It was also the time when I told you about my family dynamics. I remember those things clear as day. And I miss those talks. Quality talks. I was never someone to cry a lot in front of people. But I cried with you. Three times. Yes, I counted because crying is such an intimate and personal thing for me. I don’t mean the tears I shed last night after I watched that movie, but the real emotional tears that come straight from the sad and overwhelmed heart. Yes, that meant a lot. And you know, those tears, those explosions of emotions, they felt so good with you. It feels like a lifetime ago. Do you remember that time you called very early in the morning. My voice was thick with sleep, my brain not ready to translate the words we were saying to each other. We laughed so hard. That’s a sound I remember and miss too. Your laughter. It’s true, last November, we were so close. This November we couldn’t be farther away. You will probably be abroad for weeks, you mentioned the Netherlands to me the last time we spoke. I am not sure about your schedule and it is not my business anymore either. Just, yes. I had this thought that last year everything was different. Last November we were one. This year we are worlds apart. Next November life will be different yet again. And it is good.

waiting…

Thursday night. 7:56pm. I am waiting. The sun is setting. It’s getting colder. But I keep waiting. Every once in a while, I take my phone out of my pocket to check for missed calls or messages. People are looking at me. I keep waiting. It’s only our second date. A concert date. A band that I like a lot but I had no one to come with me tonight. I asked him. Enzo. He said he would love to come. Enzo is Italian. Looks like one too. Dark long wavy hair, brown eyes with a sparkle. Really pretty eyes. His voice is a bit nasal, and he seems nervous all the time, buzzing with a restless inner energy. I have a cousin named Enzo too. Italian heritage and all that. But I am still waiting. The music started inside, and the crowd waiting outside where I am is thinning. The bass is droning. Where is he? I hope nothing happened. Another look at the phone. There’s a message.

Sorry. This is not going to work. Enjoy the show. Sorry. Delete my number. We shouldn’t get in touch. Got back together with my ex.

I read it again. But I don’t understand what I read. I had no idea that he considered going back to his ex. Then again, it was not a subject we had breached. I am torn. Should I go in, buy a couple of beers and listen to the music? Or should I go home? Yes, I was excited for our date tonight, but was I that attached that I will drown in self-pity? I consider my option. I look down the street. It’s nearly empty. Illuminated by the orange city lights. I look back at the club’s entrance. Two men who wouldn’t fit into my closet are guarding the doors. They are laughing. It makes them appear even more intimidating. 8:25. Shit. I have never been to a concert on my own. But I really want to see this band. I take a deep breath. It’s funny how sighing or taking deep breaths relaxes me. Out of my huge tote bag, I get my ticket. I paid for it. I’m going in. One of the burly guys scans my ticket while the other ask to see my bag. I should have thought about that earlier. Could have saved me the embarrassing moment of showing how many used tissues I carry around. Love will tear us apart says the man who scanned my ticket. I don’t understand. He must be good at reading people because he jerks his chin into the direction of my bag that is inspected. Indeed. The words he said are written on my bag. I just smile and nod. I hold out my hand for the obligatory stamp. It’s a teddy bear. Childish. Who chooses these things?

I walk inside. The music is loud. Too many people. And I am alone. I try my best to fit in. But I might look lost. At the bar, I see an opening. Maybe I am lucky and can order a drink without feeling out of place? To my surprise, it does work. The usual shouting and international signs for beer are used, but I get what I want. I turn around to make my way closer to the stage. A man stumbles into my path and something cold is poured down my front. Jeez. Jerk. I shout, looking at the mess he made and the merged beer and whatever liquid he drank that are now on my shirt. I am not sure if he heard me above the music. Our eyes meet. I know those eyes. They are green. Very pale. I take a step back. Small, cautious step. It’s him. Fucking hell! Him; the band’s guitarist and singer. And I just called him a jerk. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. He looks at me. Watches me with his head tilted to the side. There is something like disappointment on his face now that I recognised him. Should I apologise? I didn’t do anything wrong. But he’s famous. Everyone around us is here to see him. And he poured his drink down my shirt. It’s a weird moment. I only see him. I know that there are people around us. Many people. But they are out of focus. Blurry side notes. Come, he orders and gently wraps his hand around my wrist. Too stunned, I just follow him. He pulls me toward the merchandise stand and asks for a T-shirt. All the time he has his hand on my wrist. He must feel my pulse against the calloused skin of his fingers and hand. I can feel it. Mine. My heart beat. It’s very fast. Almost uncomfortable. He turns to me and smiles. Again he orders me to follow him. And I do. It’s actually not careful to trust him. A stranger. But somehow, I do. Maybe I fell for the illusion that I know him because of his familiar face? Apart from my two greeting words I haven’t said a word. My mind is racing. My heart is too. He pushes doors open and shows his access all areas badge. In one hand he holds a shirt. In the other he holds me. What’s happening here? The music is not as loud anymore after we walked through another door. There are tables with food and more strangely familiar faces. People are laughing and teasing each other. Others are checking instruments. Batteries are put into guitars, strings are tuned. He shows me a door and gives me the piece of cloth he had been clutching in his hand. The one that hadn’t been on me. The moment he releases my wrist, goose flesh spreads where his touch has been. My skin is already missing his touch. Silly thought. I should dismiss it. And I really don’t want to wear a band T-shirt. But I am soaked. And so I give in.