| |
Listen To Your Heart
I’m told that normal people don’t often feel guilty when they leave one person for another, even after the love is gone. There’s yet another argument to support the fact that I’m a few cards short of a deck. What better way to console myself on another stupid step than a relaxing cup of coffee, the type that’s absolutely perfect with an even balance of sugar and cream, at my favourite coffee shop? It wasn’t the first time this had happened, nor will it be the last, because love is an erratic thing. You find yourself falling into and then floating out of love so rapidly you find yourself nauseas like you’ve just gotten off the largest roller coaster with those loop-dee-loops that turn your stomach right over the second you begin to ascend. I was never one for roller coasters anyway, only ever going on one in my life, and then leaving the ride, skin tinged a sickly green, and losing the contents of my stomach not thirty steps later.
What I’m trying to say is that this April afternoon, only a few days after the event that is still ever so vivid in my mind’s eye happened, I feel free, and alive, and a pound or two lighter. No longer is my lunch occupying my stomach, no longer is the burden of gravity pulling me back down to earth as I shoot up to the underside of the loop. My feet are firmly on terra firma and in the empty hole of my stomach is my heart. I need my liquid comfort, I rationalized, as the nippy cold air rushed to my face, numbing my nose and cheeks, but not the feeling of gaining and losing something in just a few short minutes. Good old Canadian coffee shops. With a pot always brewing, and a friendly face that can tell when you’re having a bad day. The only thing that can beat the service is the actual cup of steaming comfort.
“Two sugars, please. Actually, make it three.” I’m in need for energy, after a tiresome weekend full of stress, anticipation, and heart break, and sleepless nights where the sandman refused to come to sprinkle magical dust onto my puffy, red eyes from shedding tears. The room was cold despite the heater being turned onto a higher setting, and multiple layers of clothing. My roommate and me had barely made our curfew to be in our rooms, and were too tired to talk much, but mumble inaudible “sentences” about the coldness of the room, and where I put her sweater. From changing, to using the bathroom, to between the sheets in under ten minutes is a record for me, as I tend to drag things out, procrastinate, and then get screwed in the end. Well, I can’t help the fact that I’m a procrastinator, or the fact that I thought that I could have a relationship with someone that surpassed “best friend.” Once the lights were off, and we bid each other goodnight, she was asleep in minutes whereas I stayed awake, lying on my back with my music playing. The only real light came from under the door, leaving a faint yellow light, barely enough to light ones own toe if they decided to go to the door. I was grateful for a cloudless night, so the moon had no choice but to reveal its face, and shine through the slits in the blinds.
Lakes and overpasses: the two most romantic places in the world. Well, for me, anyway. There’s such an elegant charm about a lake just as the ice is melting after a long, harsh winter, how the air seems to vibrate with awakening streams and currents, stretching after a long dormant state. Pine trees and weeds were clearly visible on the other side of this lake, needles and leaves brown, yet not seeming to be dead. Watching the rush of cars, twinkling headlights coming from the dark and zooming by under you makes you feel like you’re a god, watching from afar the intricate workings of life. Breathtaking, feeling on top of the world. Like being in love.
After sitting down at one of the vacant tables, I put my mug of coffee down, and remove my scarf and coat, laying them neatly down on the chair next to me. The atmosphere is comforting, warm, and makes me forget briefly the events of the weekend as I gaze into the swirling brown liquid sitting in front of me. I’m anxious, and I don’t know why. Excitement bubbles inside of me furiously, and unforgivably. I feel his presence from behind, and my breath catches in my lungs. I take a sip. He greets me cheerfully before pulling up a chair on my other side, sitting down. My bangs are bobby-pinned to the side of my head in a vain attempt to tame them. There’s no hiding from his breathtaking eyes, or his hair, tousled from the wind.
Worlds apart, it feels like a tragic love story. We are both from opposite sides of the tracks. He leads a life of luxury, whereas I’m lucky to be getting a good education at all. Our worlds clash at our meetings like two foes wielding swords, or more like guns, attacking from close range. The effect is tremendous, causing a lack of breathe, and color to tinge the cheeks. Almost like playing a sport, such as football, or ultimate Frisbee. Just like with love, there’s a risk of getting hurt. Some people recover, others fester over an error. As for me, I’d like to think I’m one of the people who recover, and eventually move on, missing an entire season to get back into shape, and prepare myself mentally for love again.
How on earth did he find me here? Why did he find me? Why was he smiling at me? I take another sip, praying I won’t choke. Music playing in the shop switched to a song even he couldn’t object to, being refined in his musical tastes, and he mentions this to me. After removing his coat and gloves, he pulls out a wallet from the pocket of his pants, and leaves me to get a doughnut. A few shaky sips later, he returns with a chocolate glazed doughnut, holding it tenderly. Much more tenderly then I was holding my mug, because my knuckles around the handle were turning white and trembling slightly. With a free hand, I scratch my forehead.
“Oh, you’re bleeding,” he says surprised. Dumbly, I reply: “Really?” and I begin probing my forehead, trying to find the spot. He shakes his head as he takes a napkin from a dispenser, and pats it against the spot I couldn’t find. My heart flutters. It subsides as he hands me the napkin where a tiny spot of blood stained the white surface. He smiles at me, and then takes a bite out of his doughnut. The music switches again. I felt for a moment as if he held my life in his hands for that brief moment, just as he held my attention when he spoke, or hummed, or even when he walked. I’d watch his retreating back with high hopes he’d turn around and wave, or say goodbye, or forget to say something, and come running back to me.
Oh, how I wish I could tell him, and express it in ways other than subtle hints in dialogue, or written words. Sweet words he misses the meaning to, and shrugs it off as some joke his best friend just wrote. What’s the matter with me? Why do I fall in love with them? Why? It only ends badly, with more than just heartbreak, because I’ll continue on seeing this boy every single day for hours without end, and know that I can’t have him. I’m too scared. I’m a silly scared girl running from emotion. Incapable of emotion, or love, or expression, that’s what I am. They say, “Knock and the door shall be opened.” I knocked twice, waited endlessly; the door opened an inch before slamming shut. No chance was given, because who wants to take a chance when it’s their heart on the line? Who wants to take a chance when they don’t love you?
This is why I cannot blame the boy sitting next to me. He doesn’t love me, never will, and I need to come to accept this. But I never will, because love is an erratic thing. You find yourself falling into and then floating out of love so rapidly, sometimes you cannot afford the time to grieve. This love is special, because he keeps me at the edge of my seat. He’s always thinking up something new, expressing himself in a new way, and making me laugh with a new thought. I can watch him for hours… even if he does nothing, because his face, his silhouette, his laugh… he captivates me. I could continue on and on about the ways I love him, why I love him, but that’s more for a poet’s pen. I’m not capable of emotion, therefore I cannot weave beautiful poetry for him. I cannot sing for him, because his eyes- I get lost in them, and find myself wondering whether to look away or not. I cannot write, so I cannot send sweet letters that utter sweet, helpless ramblings.
He’s quietly eating; I’m trying to sip softly. He doesn’t know how much I’m missing him, even though our elbows are only centimetres away from touching. Now would be the perfect time. Now is the ideal moment. We’re alone, the gang isn’t here, and won’t be here, because he baffles me, because he found me. On this side of the train tracks, in this community that he knows little about. We’re alone in the universe called café table, the only inhabitants are me and him. “Tell him!” I urge myself, and place my cup on the table, and clear my throat. He doesn’t seem to notice the voices in my head and heart arguing with each other. “She’s going to get hurt again!” Says the one in my head. “But she loves him, needs him, wants him!” Counters the one in my heart. And then, it clicks. I do need him. He’s the only thing in the world that keeps me sane, and keeps my feet upon the ground. He’s the one that encourages, and holds me when I cry.
I say his name and he looks up at me, half smiling, which I assume is because I spoke to him. I could see a faint glimmer of braces past his lips. Listen to your heart, I keep telling myself as I try to pluck up the courage, but it’s not collecting easily or as quickly as I want it to. I blush as his eyes stare into mine, yet I cannot pull away.
“You… have something on your cheek,” I stammer, raising my hand and brushing away an eyelash. He thanks me, finishing off his doughnut, and collecting his things. He puts on his coat, his gloves, and then hesitates before leaving me, shouting a parting word over his shoulder.
|
Help Us Stop Plagiarism -
Nearly all works at PnP are original. However a few people choose to plagiarize.
To check, choose a phrase from the work, then either drag and drop to the search box or copy and paste.
click on search and works at Google will be shown which match. Just to be sure, please do this before
you recommend or rate the work highly...
|
 |
|
|
|
Select a Random Work
from Stories
|
|
Welcome !
Contest Winner
