Dawn was always impossible. Whenever she declared her love for Tara in loud bars, hiding behind her never-ending cocktail glasses, flirting with every bartender in town, shining her light on the dancefloors, all through the mirrored ceilings and bright disco balls, losing her desire to talk but never to flirtatiously wink, Dawn was breathtaking, unreal, impossible. She always whispered, “I’m only getting us free drinks,” and it was absurd not to believe her. After all, it was only Tara whom she incessantly kissed everywhere from empty parking lots to dirty bathrooms, and it was only Tara who ever took her home. Long before they figured out what to call it, long before anything about Dawn started to make sense. Whenever she came back from parties, whenever Tara had to save Dawn from all of her reckless ideas—from drunk driving to skinny-dipping in the dark—Tara came home ten times more tired and ten times less drunk. Dawn, who took the longest humanly possible time to fall asleep, still always woke up earlier. Everything about Dawn was unreal, because nothing ever left its mark.
It was good while it lasted, and even better before it started to last. White sheets, coffee with cream in the morning, pop music playing through the speakers, long showers that they never took alone, Dawn’s hands travelling all over her body, searching for all the places that make her fall apart, that could take her down bone by bone. Tara was always rude over the phone whenever one of the guys from the night before called. Dawn never minded Tara answering the phone for her, but she always told her, “You’re wasting your breath for nothing.”. The truth is, Tara was mad at Dawn lots of times, confused by her more times than she can count, but she was never jealous. Victoria joked it’s her way of exercising a human’s birthright to scream and shout, be feisty without reason.
“You woke up right on time,” Dawn always said over the music, working magic in the kitchen, when Tara hugged her from behind and kissed her ear. “I swear, I found the best recipe in the universe.” Eight out of ten times, it was true.
Dawn, her Dawn, was quiet on weekdays, never trusted anybody’s judgment better than Tara’s, made fun of the way Vicky clung to her solitude, always joked the dirtiest, especially during Tara’s lowest points, and had a smile worth a couple of lifetimes. Dawn had a heart with no idea of recklessness, but she also had Tara, who sighed annoyingly, took away her car keys, and took her home. Would it have made any difference if Tara had ever considered that one day, she might not be able to save her?
Tara always hugged her from behind in the mornings, kissed her passionately before every party, and they both always made sure to be together, long before they figured out what to call it. Dawn was always breathtaking, almost too much to exist, and it never made it to words how Tara always behaved as if it were temporary. As if some things can’t last.
Dawn first asked her, “What’s wrong?” not long before everything ended. The truth is, nothing was ever wrong. It’s just how it is, tragedy claiming its right on everything too good, everything nameless, and everything right to the bone. Everything worth a couple of lifetimes.
(song: Carly Rae Jepsen - Never Get to Hold You)
