I’m sitting at a table, in a coffee shop. I’m ordering my drink. I see you walk in the door. Your face wears no smile, but it looks like home. I sink back into my seat. The waiter brings me a steaming cup of coffee, but when I drop it and it shatters on the floor, I know my face is hotter. You walk over and help clean it up. Now I’m flustered. Our eyes meet. It’s cliche. But I fall for you, anyway.
Six months later. I have my feet up on your dashboard and I’m screaming a love song. You scream along with me. We’re flying down some road, not caring where it takes us. We’re not Bonnie and Clyde, but Bonnie and Bonnie. I don’t think about home or coming back any time soon. We find ourselves at a hotel three states away. You kiss me on the lips. The lady at the desk gives us a funny look and glances away shyly. Maybe we shouldn’t have gone South.
You’re a Scorpio and I’m a Libra. Not that it matters.
We’re home. Or at least, we found a home. It’s high on a hill, a country away from everything we know. “Scotland is prettier”, you tell me. I believe you. We lie in bed together, our eyes gentle and tearful. The aroma of lavender and wet bark lies deep on our silk pillow cases. I begin to to think I’m in love.
It’s been nine months. We decide we want to widen our horizons. You say baby, I say dog. We settle for dog. Actually, we settle for a lot of dogs. One is older and we name it Ichobad. Ichobad is soft and sweet.
Summers later, Ichobad becomes one with the flowers and the weeds and the dirt. Goodbye, Ichobad. You changed my life for the better. I tell you we need to try and fill Ichobad’s place. You tell me yes. You thought I meant another dog. You realize you were wrong when we pull into the aviary. We laugh.
Now we have twelve birds and four dogs. You say we have problems, but neither of us try to fix them. We have good problems. Our house has a few too many plants for most people, but at least we’ve got fresh air.
The wooden floors are perfect for dancing in our socks.
There’s no persecution here. We can live the way we want and be in love. Life is blissful.
You tell me you want to plant a garden near the graveyard. “The soil is nice over there.” We laugh aloud, then I tell you to shush, the spirits might hear you. We plant it, anyway. We think the corpses might like it.
On halloween we light candles and burn black sage and whisper spells under our breath. Some kids walk all the way up our hill. They think we’re witches. They aren’t wrong.
Now we’re crying in the living room, screaming at the television. “Jim, you idiot! Plato loved you!”
In December we sit around our dining table, laughing and clinking wine glasses with our friends. We tell tall tales and talk of all our aspirations and dreams. An hour and a half later, we’re all passed out and tipsy. We open presents the next morning. You call yourself Santa and give us each a bottle of wine. I tell you you’re unbearable. You smile.
I’m reading a book. You’re reading the paper. I’m drinking tea. You’re drinking black coffee. I’m in a sundress. You’re wearing glasses, your shirt unbuttoned and your short hair messy. I can’t look at you or I’ll kiss you.
I’m yelling, throwing a book at you. You’re unregretful and sharp. I tell you you’re hurting me, but your mouth is full of blood and your eyes carry a smile. Each word you say is prickly and it pierces me to my core. I tell you to leave. You do.
A week passes; I’m alone. I tend to the birds and the dogs and buy a cat to fill the hole in the house. It works for a day, then I miss you again. You stupid woman, I love you.
Now you’re stranding on the doorstep in the rain. You have a letter in your hand and tears in your eyes. Or maybe those are just raindrops. I hand you a towel.
We make hot cocoa and you tell me everything. I sit on the counter and listen, not saying a word. Finally, when you’re done, I kiss you. I kiss you, and that’s all there is.
You treat me like glass for the next few days. So fragile, so afraid I’ll break again if you aren’t gentle. I’m silent. The hours pass by, blue and grey.
After a while I wish for red. You give it, when you lead me to the roof. Let’s not talk about what we said on the roof. It was red and orange and purple and everything. You were everything.
My skin begins to wrinkle, darling your’s does too. I never notice, we still love like we used to. Winters come and go, but our life never slows down. We’re wild and unforgiving and youthful. I was quite a lot, but you were everything.
You were still everything when I breathed my last breath in your arms, when you buried me in the graveyard near the house, when my body turned to flowers and weeds, and when you wept over my grave. Even when I told you not to mourn. You were always everything.
