"He seemed taller before," was the thought that struck me upon first seeing him, "taller and younger." Perhaps my infatuation, occurring long before I'd decided to date my ex, had stretched his legs and smoothed his face. There is no other explanation for these dramatic changes in his appearance. His hair had grown long, creating a thick, jet-black fringe over his eyes.
At any other time I would have embraced him, just so I could breathe in his scent, just to force him to wrap his arms around me, and well, to feel him up. But, no. His presence was much too purposeful to play catch-up. He was at my apartment with strict orders: to pick up the rest of my ex's belongings.
Sensing the potential awkwardness of the situation and not wanting to prolong it, I'd piled all of my ex's things into an armchair near the door. But, strategically betraying myself, I'd 'forgotten' some things in my bedroom just so he'd have to watch my hips sway as I walked away from him to retrieve them.
The living room was warm and smelled like vanilla and Earl Grey. In my anticipation of this moment, I'd found it difficult to keep a still mind and, because of this, forced myself to make a pot of tea that went untouched. Drinking, however, was beside the point. The comfort was found in the filling of the kettle, the scooping of dried leaves and flowers, and the fragrance inhaled as he stepped through the door.
He looked down at the chair and the heap of items calling for his attention, "Wow."
"Yeah," I said, reading his thoughts. "He left a lot of things here."
My ex is an Italian chef so I was surprised to find he'd forgotten all of his pots, pans, and cooking utensils when he moved out. It made me wonder if he was in that big of a hurry to leave or did he only partially move out because he expected himself to be returning soon?
Standing there, my ex's friend made a few feeble attempts at conversation. I tried to help him, "So do you have exams next week?"
"Yeah, haven't started studying yet, though."
"Yeah, well, I'm sure it will all go fine."
"I hope so," he gave a thin chuckle. And then there was silence broken only by the faint music streaming from my stereo, something acoustic and background-ish.
Thinking on it now, I believe we were so ill at ease because it wasn't just the two of us in the room. With my ex's belongings occupying a chair, it felt as if there were three of us present and the third person wasn't contributing anything to the conversation but discomfort.
After a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders, "Well, I guess I'll just grab these things and head out."
"Wait!" I said with more urgency than the situation required. "Before I forget, I think I left a few things in the bedroom. Be right back." I turned and walked away from him, swaying my hips almost aggressively.
When I reentered the room carrying a few items of clothing, he looked a lot calmer, and was leaning against the wall. I'm guessing it was the word 'bedroom' that put him at ease, or the fact that the way I walked whilst leaving the room looked intentional, because it was.
"Okay," I said, adding the clothing to the pile, "I think that's it."
"Alright," he sighed, looking down at the load he was to carry to his car. He looked up at me, smiled, and leaned in to kiss me goodbye, "See ya."
"See you," I said, allowing him to drop a kiss on the ambiguous place that lies on the corner of my mouth.
We both pulled back, smiling politely. Then, out of mutual curiosity, leaned in again and quickly kissed each other on the mouth, like two children kissing someone other than their parents for the first time. We parted, looking intently at one another and waiting for a signal. The song on the stereo changed and that was signal enough.
At the sound of the first chord, we hastily pressed our bodies and mouths together, needing to memorise each other’s taste and touch while we, for the moment, forgot the presence of the third person in the room. I let the prickly shadow on his cheeks scratch my face and lips and lifted my chin, allowing him access to my neck. He returned his lips to mine, his mouth smelling of my perfume and tasting of the salt on my skin.
Tongues, teeth, lips and breath, minutes passed.
He stepped forward and I clumsily moved my left foot back. The heel of my foot hit the leg of a chair, a pot fell to the floor with a clamour. We both jumped and looked down at the source of the noise. The third person had cleared his throat. We released each other.
"I'm sorry," he said with guilt.
"Me too." I wondered if we were apologising to each other or the pile of stuff on the chair.
He ran a hand through his hair, composing himself, reached down and picked up the pot. I went to the kitchen and brought him a large bag to make carrying the things easier.
He filled the bag, kissed my cheek and left, still murmuring an apology.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
Simple love feels like being excited about dessert
So I was going through my old journal entries and found some pretty interesting stuff.
This entry was written June 7th, 2006. Enjoy.
When it comes to relationships, is it possible to just be great? Does there always have to be something hidden, some kind of weird characteristic that explains why you're single in the first place? Alright, well if that's true, then what is my characteristic? Can't it be that some people just haven't been discovered yet? Like talented writers, musicians and painters who can't seem to find the right mode of expression.
A writer tries painting, tries learning the guitar, tries- i don't know- bird watching. Finally, a story makes it's way through and he decides to record the ideas. Beauty is neither created or destroyed, it just takes on different forms. The story is an answer to some deep hidden call. This is all very cliche but I think I'm on the right track. What I'm saying is, perhaps the right person is like the right mode of expression. Where you feel like you can actually love right. Love like you're supposed to. That's kind of amazing.
I think my weird characteristic that explains why I'm still single might be my ability to completely talk myself out of something until it feels as if it never really existed at all. I can do that. I can pull people and situations apart until they're just particles in the air. Nothing touchable or relatively substantial. And that degree of my analytical nature is negative.
You are to me as the story is to the writer, lost and then found and full of hope, conclusion still unknown.

Image originally posted at my myspace page.
This entry was written June 7th, 2006. Enjoy.
When it comes to relationships, is it possible to just be great? Does there always have to be something hidden, some kind of weird characteristic that explains why you're single in the first place? Alright, well if that's true, then what is my characteristic? Can't it be that some people just haven't been discovered yet? Like talented writers, musicians and painters who can't seem to find the right mode of expression.
A writer tries painting, tries learning the guitar, tries- i don't know- bird watching. Finally, a story makes it's way through and he decides to record the ideas. Beauty is neither created or destroyed, it just takes on different forms. The story is an answer to some deep hidden call. This is all very cliche but I think I'm on the right track. What I'm saying is, perhaps the right person is like the right mode of expression. Where you feel like you can actually love right. Love like you're supposed to. That's kind of amazing.
I think my weird characteristic that explains why I'm still single might be my ability to completely talk myself out of something until it feels as if it never really existed at all. I can do that. I can pull people and situations apart until they're just particles in the air. Nothing touchable or relatively substantial. And that degree of my analytical nature is negative.
You are to me as the story is to the writer, lost and then found and full of hope, conclusion still unknown.
Image originally posted at my myspace page.
The usual 20-Something
Recenty- oh wait, that's a lie- since I've graduated with my bachelor's (there ya go) I've been feeling like I should be, I dunno, doing something. Before I graduated, I wasn't sure of what I wanted so traveling seemed like a good enough option and since I was going somewhere, I might as well get a second degree while I'm there.
So I'm in Australia, with a BA in Journalism and a minor in Marketing whilst completing a MA in Professional Communications/ Public Relations. I've bought a camara and have started writing a lot more about my life but what I've noticed is that there isn't much to be said. Being a "professional communicator" means that I should be able to talk to anyone about anything and that I should be a wonderful conversationalist and people-person. I think I'm starting to see that... I am.
Nothing to Write Home About
So I'm in Australia, with a BA in Journalism and a minor in Marketing whilst completing a MA in Professional Communications/ Public Relations. I've bought a camara and have started writing a lot more about my life but what I've noticed is that there isn't much to be said. Being a "professional communicator" means that I should be able to talk to anyone about anything and that I should be a wonderful conversationalist and people-person. I think I'm starting to see that... I am.
Nothing to Write Home About
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