just remembering...
Aug. 20th, 2007 03:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brightrosefoxSnapshot, his memory:
He's telling me about one of the moments when he knew he was too far gone. He was in the basement of the old Ill Omen house, he says, lying on the couch that used to be there. Listening to Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" on repeat in the CD player, over and over and over. He played it, he says, for me, because of me. Because back then, he had not wanted to fall in love again, when his heart had been so shattered before; he had been hesitant to fall in love with me, because I was too tempting, I was too dangerous, he said, I had his heart in my hands without realizing; I had the power to destroy him or redeem him with a single word, or three. And I wouldn't know, he says, not until he told me. And it scared him. Because he was in love with me, and he knew deep down that this time would be it, would be done.
Snapshot, his memory:
We're on the phone, like all those other times, and it is late, and I need to get up early for classes in the morning. I tell him good night, and he tells me good night, and I hang up the phone. But he sits there, with the phone to his ear, and he listens for the dial tone. And he whispers in the dark, into the dial tone, into the places I can't hear, "I love you." And he whispers it every night again, into the silence, for three weeks, until finally he hears me say it, as if it had always been my words first. And when he finally gets to say it back to my ears, that's it. He is forever. He won't look back; all he can do is move forward, forward, through the weeks to our first kiss.
Snapshot, my memory:
I'm pacing the airport's gate, shaking and terrified and pale and worried; the plane was two hours late and is just now landing. My parents try and calm me, but I feel nauseated and jittery and I can't be calm. People start walking into the room, people from the plane, and I jump up and look and watch. "Is that him?" my mother asks, several times, and I say, "No, no, no..." too anxious to say anything more, my heart pounding and screaming; I can't handle any more waiting. The last person, so I think, is off the plane. And then one more walks into the room. He is tall, his shoulders are broad, he is wearing a teal collared shirt under a black vest, with black jeans, and round blue sunglasses, and even though I haven't seen him in six months except for a photograph, I know it's him. He's carrying a long white box under one arm. He stops and lowers his sunglasses with one finger, nervous scared smile, and I am running, I am running, I leap into his arms and he grabs me and lifts me off my feet with one arm and we hug and hug, and "Hi," he whispers, and "Hi," I whisper. And then I think I see his head turn toward mine, so I do the only thing I can, I kiss him. I kiss him and sparks ignite. I kiss him and he kisses me and I'm lost. I'm forever. And then we separate, and go to my parents, and he gives my mother the long white box. Later on, we'd open it to find a bunch of brilliantly colored wildflowers.
Snapshot, my memory:
Our first official date, the day before Thanksgiving 1999, the day after the airport kiss: We are walking along the Sag Harbor Long Wharf, hand in hand, carrying a bag which contains a slice of chocolate cake and a cup of freshly-made chocolate pudding from the Corner Deli. We are feeding each other spoonfuls on a bench overlooking the bay and the boats, as the sun begins to set. Breathing in the salt air, the peace of a village in autumn. Breathing In Love. Later, we drive home by the beach, watching the water turn slate bluish gray while the sun bled orange and red and pink and the sky was so clear we can almost see into the heart of everything.
When I look in your eyes, I see the heart of my everything, the beginning of my forever. My wonderful love.
He's telling me about one of the moments when he knew he was too far gone. He was in the basement of the old Ill Omen house, he says, lying on the couch that used to be there. Listening to Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" on repeat in the CD player, over and over and over. He played it, he says, for me, because of me. Because back then, he had not wanted to fall in love again, when his heart had been so shattered before; he had been hesitant to fall in love with me, because I was too tempting, I was too dangerous, he said, I had his heart in my hands without realizing; I had the power to destroy him or redeem him with a single word, or three. And I wouldn't know, he says, not until he told me. And it scared him. Because he was in love with me, and he knew deep down that this time would be it, would be done.
Snapshot, his memory:
We're on the phone, like all those other times, and it is late, and I need to get up early for classes in the morning. I tell him good night, and he tells me good night, and I hang up the phone. But he sits there, with the phone to his ear, and he listens for the dial tone. And he whispers in the dark, into the dial tone, into the places I can't hear, "I love you." And he whispers it every night again, into the silence, for three weeks, until finally he hears me say it, as if it had always been my words first. And when he finally gets to say it back to my ears, that's it. He is forever. He won't look back; all he can do is move forward, forward, through the weeks to our first kiss.
Snapshot, my memory:
I'm pacing the airport's gate, shaking and terrified and pale and worried; the plane was two hours late and is just now landing. My parents try and calm me, but I feel nauseated and jittery and I can't be calm. People start walking into the room, people from the plane, and I jump up and look and watch. "Is that him?" my mother asks, several times, and I say, "No, no, no..." too anxious to say anything more, my heart pounding and screaming; I can't handle any more waiting. The last person, so I think, is off the plane. And then one more walks into the room. He is tall, his shoulders are broad, he is wearing a teal collared shirt under a black vest, with black jeans, and round blue sunglasses, and even though I haven't seen him in six months except for a photograph, I know it's him. He's carrying a long white box under one arm. He stops and lowers his sunglasses with one finger, nervous scared smile, and I am running, I am running, I leap into his arms and he grabs me and lifts me off my feet with one arm and we hug and hug, and "Hi," he whispers, and "Hi," I whisper. And then I think I see his head turn toward mine, so I do the only thing I can, I kiss him. I kiss him and sparks ignite. I kiss him and he kisses me and I'm lost. I'm forever. And then we separate, and go to my parents, and he gives my mother the long white box. Later on, we'd open it to find a bunch of brilliantly colored wildflowers.
Snapshot, my memory:
Our first official date, the day before Thanksgiving 1999, the day after the airport kiss: We are walking along the Sag Harbor Long Wharf, hand in hand, carrying a bag which contains a slice of chocolate cake and a cup of freshly-made chocolate pudding from the Corner Deli. We are feeding each other spoonfuls on a bench overlooking the bay and the boats, as the sun begins to set. Breathing in the salt air, the peace of a village in autumn. Breathing In Love. Later, we drive home by the beach, watching the water turn slate bluish gray while the sun bled orange and red and pink and the sky was so clear we can almost see into the heart of everything.
When I look in your eyes, I see the heart of my everything, the beginning of my forever. My wonderful love.
