40 feet? 50 feet? How much space, she wonders, does she need for the desired effect?
To think that in a few seconds she will be rescued from, what she considers, her young mind. One,
either incapable or unwilling to grow up with her body having been promised a life in which she was
predestined to never grasp. The suitors dangled in front of her sentiments, like phasmids on a tree.
Her mouse like mind set free only to be cruelly hunted again by the cat. It seemed to have its claws
dug in deep this time. Could she afford another release?
She's tired of playing this game that, it seems, she is never destined to win or even be competitive.
As she stands there on that balcony, entering the age in which one might describe as mature, it
seems increasing likely that this will remain true.
Ever since she was young she had always had a simple philosophy to what made her happy. It was
through the tongues of friends and lovers that she was to find a sense of fulfilment. Her friends were
a beautiful pause from the thoughts that she dare not utter, the thoughts that plagued her young
mind. As she stands there she can't help but smile at the thought of her sitting with her best friends,
both alone and in groups on occasions, talking into the late night and early morning, forgetting the
universe and the nonsensical lack of meaning she felt she prescribed to. This allowed her to create
her own self worth in the valued friendships she'd made. This was, in her eyes, the greatest gift that
any friend could give. The gift of meaning and worth. She will always be thankful for this gift, which she had often found remarkable to be receiving, and she could only hope that she gave similar
meaning to those that have been so generous to her with their precious time. Nevertheless, despite
her gratefulness, she always felt she deserved more. She felt it a right of a human being to find the
furthest completion that can be obtained by human interaction alone.
As she looks out over the horizon, where the sun is beginning to timidly dip its toes into the ocean,
she asks: why not me? To which her conscience, too witty for her own good, responds by asking:
why not everyone else? Answers can indeed take the form of a question.
She steps back from the balcony and takes a seat of the end of the bed; the stage for many animated
acts of passion with her last fulfiller. She laughs at the saying she'd been told when younger about what distinguishes between intercourse and love making. "It's whether or not you ask him to come
closer or go deeper" she was told. Upon the pleasure of reminiscing this joke she is filled with an
overwhelming sense pathos at the replaying of her intimate moments with him. Whilst their love
making resembled teenage fumblings under the sheets, rather than her previous assumption that it
would be more like Elvis and angels, she'd always call him closer. Closer and closer until her soul
fused with his in a metaphysical dance between two conquerors of one of life's greatest burden.
Those post-dance conversations would start with her response to his amorous stare. She remembers
his perfectly round eyes. Not the mathematical impossibility but the aesthetic perfection they
created as small shades, with a hint of blue, on a pale canvas. She would then watch him as he got
up to boil the kettle or take a shower. Even when he wasn't in the room, her young mind would still
be watching him. Bruised by pretenders, she wasn't going to let these moments slip away from her.
Upon his return she would seek the touch of his lips. She felt humbled at every kiss. The absurd
thought that she was good enough to fulfil someone entered her young mind. She often asked
herself if there was something wrong with him. The thought of him being capable of fulfilling
someone was a thought she had seen as self evident as anything could scientifically be.
His frog like lips, with an upper lip slightly more extended from the jaw than the bottom lip. What
some men could have seen as an insecurity was something that she loved. This top lip gave her
something to hold onto when seeking his touch and she thought this was perfect.
She felt that god had endowed him with an equally beautiful mind and mentality. She recalls many a
conversation had in confidence and in groups in which he displayed more class, wit and intelligence
than many civilisations that she could name. Indeed, she often feared that as a couple they would be
seen as monotonous, partly because of her inability to find interest in herself, but she was reminded
every day that, because of his disarming charm, nothing he ever did was boring.
As she sat there on that hotel bed she thinks back to how, as long as she had his amour then nothing
in life would be overwhelming. Nothing would be too challenging. She would return home to
someone who provided her the greatest possible stability that she could obtain in a universe existing
in a state of flux. If she was to be cynical she would often describe him as the greatest drug she'd
ever taken, except every day she felt like she was going through that first high.
What was that song that defined her thoughts?
She remembers those nights they spent trying to recollect and recover their youth. She would
powder her nose and he would powder his gums and as she tried to get close, he'd already be gone.
They'd lie there in the dark, with nothing to say. Just two hearts beating in the grey.
Those mornings when she'd put on her shoes and he'd button his coat and they'd step outside
checking whether or not the coast is clear on both sides. After all, their love was social suicide but
they couldn't find the ropes and this thrill was just fine. She sometimes wonders if he was never
going to be genuine with his intentions to her, but that he was just, simply, a thrill seeker. She never
told her mother for its better that she'd not know and he won't tell his folks because they were
already ghosts. She'd often consider asking him if he would stay with her until they were old and
grey. She didn't want to be alone when her bones decayed. Her hesitation to allow this sentiment
take the form of words was sourced from the view that if it was to be true then it should be self
evident and therefore does not need confirmation. Despite the fact that she knew that this was not
consistent with her condition, she remained silent. Ignorance was bliss.
As she sat there on the bed in that hotel room, starring at her legacy from the night before,
consisting of a terrified empty bottle of wine, she begs him to come back. He'd display beauty in the
simplest of things. She still had a lot to learn from him. Her best friend wasn't coming back and
neither, as she caresses the crevasses and mountains of her maturing epidermis, was another
chance to be complete, to be happy.
As she looks back over the balcony, at the Waning Gibbous of the sun, as it's waistline shivers below
the surface, she aims to come to terms with what she has just analysed.
Left foot up. Now the right. She can feel the wind over her hair now but she doesn't find it
intimidating. She had come to terms with the answer to the question: why not me? She thanks him
for the loving dancing and happiness that he gave her. She ushered her goodbyes to a universe and
shook God's hand in appreciation.
As she set herself free, her initial panic attempts to defy gravity but to little success. However, during
the short journey, she eventually finds peace in the knowledge that both her sentiments and her wit
agree on the view that a life without obtaining completion is not a life worth living. Thus, the harsh
thud of the concrete below provides her with an infinite release.
Francis Edge
