#sbeck

[sbaeta]

To June

28/30: over thinking

Hold her hand, I think as she takes a sip from a purple drink, palm on the table a little too close to my side. I play with a threadbare seam, sink into my chair and out of view, hide behind the brunch menu.

Hold her hand! I tell myself as we wander bookshelves and her fingertips slip between the wrinkles of her dress. And as I guess the distance it would take to close the space, I careen into an unseen display. An array of baking books threatens to topple over, she braces the wobbling cake covers and all I can do is stutter out a “thank you.”

Hold. her. hand. We’re piled on the couch now, a specialty of ours. I slouch down into the cushions and lose track of the movie, munching on fruity snacks in the hopes that they can mask the bitter taste of wasted potential. Her expression softens as the instrumental music swells. What the hell, I think, and then, as if it isn’t planned, I take her hand.

I’m holding her hand... The thought gets caught in my head, a counterpoint to the dialogue said. Thinking of brunches and the books we just bought, I sink into this new type of together.

And just when I think things can’t get better, she silences my mind for a while by placing a kiss on my smile.

[sbaeta]

To June

6/30: déjà vu

Holding her hand isn’t a big deal. I feel a soft weight on my palm and nothing but calm fills my chest. I guess this is normal, no formal declarations need to be heeded for interlaced fingers to find a friend’s. I willingly go as she pulls me along, matching her long strides in skips, thoughts eclipsed with getting from point A to point B. We’re dodging a sea of orange and blue to get to a game that’s two minutes in, and as she mentions the win from last week, that same, unnamed familiar sense fills my core. Has this happened before? A memory laps at my sore ankles trying to catch up, but it’s ignored in favor of the match’s cheers and score board. It’s weird that it’s not weird… she steers me through the crowd to the seats beneath our feet and I don’t mind our intertwined hands. It’s usually tough for me to stand the touch of a new friend, but hers feels a little more than new. I wish I knew why holding her hand feels like déjà vu.

[sbaeta]

To June

27/30: warm

Blake smiles at me and I shake my head. “How do you know?” She asks instead, shifting the bags in her hands to a more comfortable position. Sitting on a bench outside the store, I try to describe what can’t be said. “She’s warm.” I form the words slowly, a deliberate attempt to be understood, but the syllables are only a pale imitation of the sensation. “Some love is like a popsicle on a summer day, a cool wave after burning on the beach. Or applause after a speech, yelling ‘surprise’ at a party, hardly catching your breath before running just one more mile. But her smile… it’s warm. Some love is running through a thunderstorm, it’s love like sour candy or even brandy, it’s sweet with a sting and it’s nothing like her. She’s more like… I don’t know, it’s familiar and slow. She’s flowers after a show, an awning during April showers, hours of conversation or a life without translations. I love her in a comfortable way. As confidently as coffee in the morning, as adoringly as a freshly cut bouquet. Does that make sense? She’s sleeping in on Sundays, Monet’s strokes or putting on a coat someone else was just wearing. I’m always preparing for what’s still to come, but with her, when we’re together, the present feels like enough. So yeah, I guess that’s how I would describe love.” We stand up from our spot and I finish my thought. “Who can say, really, what form love should take. But for me, Blake, it’s warm. For me, it’s her.”

[sbaeta]

To June

22/30: existing

She’s speaking to her mother on the phone, clipped tones of gibberish. Though I can’t make out the meaning behind them, there’s a bitterness to the other line’s speeches that leave me feeling like an intruder. I maneuver towards the door, but before I can go away, she mouths “stay” and rolls her eyes, making light of the situation even as garbled vexations continue without cessation through the phone’s speaker. It’s two more minutes of skewed snippets before I hear my name and she stiffens. It’s too late to pretend I’m not listening and she hesitates another second before answering the question. I recognize “friend,” but then it’s over. Even after they say their goodbyes, her eyes stay glued to the ground like she’s waiting for some divine power to come down and swallow her whole. I shift a bit, unsure of what to say. I opt for something dumb, ask if her mom is always so chummy. She smiles a bit, though we both know it’s not funny, and I wonder if I should explain how much I heard. The words don’t come, so I sit instead, drumming my fingertips against her bed. Her head finds my shoulder, and feeling bolder, I throw an arm over to hold her a bit closer. Maybe it’s enough to exist near a friend, let my presence provide what my words can’t confide.

[sbaeta]

To June

20/30: blackout

We play board games by flickering flames and the flashlights on our phones. We look like a cheap Game of Thrones, switching players and catching betrayers, yelling at each other’s cunning and huddling together because Winter is Coming. I think she winks at me, but the light dances with my breath and I can’t tell if my mind is being too kind and blinding me to reality. I stare at hands bathed in gold, encased in soft halos. The room fills with lavender and I can’t make out if it’s her or the candles. I gave up getting a handle on the rules long ago, I turn towards the lovely girl beside me instead. I shake the dice with flair (or flare, all puns intended) and win a token for my efforts. I disrupt her roll by casting shadows on the battlefield and only yield when I have to shield myself from her attacks. I laugh in the face of the enemy. It’s lovely and I admit, a part of me hopes the power never comes back.

[sbaeta]

To June

18/30: the news

She announces it like she’s telling me the time, reading a headline, there’s nothing implied. Even the sigh she gives after is in answer to a wrong order. She exchanges everything for cinnamon, my head is still swimming in the news. We choose a table inside, I try to hide the lilt in my tone when I bring it up again. It happened over the phone, she says, it was the end of the line, it was time, it was an amicable goodbye. I nod in the right places, keep my face neutral, drink scruples down with my coffee. I bite my tongue and run through sympathetic expressions as my mind wrestles with itself. I don’t offer advice, I devise new ways of saying "yes" and "uh huh" while staying passively supportive. I furtively search for traces of regret on her face, but she doesn’t seem sad. Only tired. They thought they’d anticipated the effort a long-distance relationship would require, and they’ve both been trying, but college is winding up, they have other interests vying for their attention. They didn’t grow together. She mentions wanting to watch extended episodes and I agree immediately. If her way of healing is by stealing laughs from mockumentaries, I’ll play my part in the scene. She’s out of creme cheese, that’s something I can fix. I quickly get up, are two packets enough? Grab them fast, make it back and distract her until class. And as the lecturer gets herself set, I finally let myself breathe. I cleave to cinders and stoke at embers of hope.

[sbaeta]

To June

16/30: fearless champion

She’s my fearless champion, a hero wrapped in a college sweatshirt, the protector of the lecture hall. All it took was a little blue booklet to set this crush ablaze, saving the day and keeping my grade safe in art history. It’s a mystery to me why we need to use this special paper as if we’re traitors to academia herself if we dare excel outside of teal covers. I wonder if the color is embedded with a credit checker, a mood ring that springs to life with greens and yellows and reds depending on the rubric. “If the book isn’t blue, then there’s no score for you” is the law of the land and I ran into a curriculum-fight empty handed. But, before the panic fully sets in, she grins and pulls a second booklet from her bag. I take it like a shield, wielding it up to the light as if inspecting my weaponry before a fight. The phrases that are usually so close to my tongue come undone and I gush out her praises as a blush grazes her cheeks. My speeches are cut off by the clock hitting noon. I strewn the gifted pages with words on Monet, still thinking of the hero who saved my grade and the day.

[sbaeta]

To June

29/30: sweet tooth

I’m starved for her presence. What can I say, I got a taste and it’s a disgrace to pretend I’ll ever want to switch to something plainer. What’s ginger ale to champagne? The feeling lingers on my lips with bubbles stained into my tongue. I’m a glutton. I fill my mind to the rim with her scent. Hmm, mint. She still laughs like before, but it’s underscored in something more, like our breaths are somehow deeper or maybe the air’s just cheaper now? I seek her out like a sweet tooth or my favorite fruit in season. It’s true, requited love is too easy to ease into. I’m parched for the arched letters she plates on paper or the way her sentences taper off when a new intrusive thought drops into existence. She makes the ordinary drip with decadence. It’s sugary and candied, dulcet and delicious. I’ve never been so happy to overload my senses.