I once thought that I could write a love story.
It seemed so simple at the time. The puzzle pieces fit together and I had this dream that is how it would be: that a-ha moment where as kids we finally put that one final piece into our thousand piece Disney puzzles...
While the idea of love is so simple, not messy or complicated, I have this odd little inkling that I'm glad it's worked out the way it has. I'm strangely happy that it's never what it seems. It's full of quick punches to the gut, weird disappointments that have nothing to do with the other party, and moments where you wonder if you're just... a little crazy.
I once wrote this love story about a night similar to this one--warm, not too humid, two people who smiled at each other and wondered who the other was. A silly little story of a stubborn woman who still has a hard time letting others in and a man who was new to the city. Yellow stringed lights and an inquiry of a beer later. In my story she said yes and they fell madly in love over little laughs and a night full of adventures.
In my story that man and that woman were uncomplicated--were not people. They didn't have pasts, obstacles, anything uncommon or any qualms about the future. No uncertainty.
It's clear to see that I don't know how those kinds of stories work in real life.
I'm not in a shiny, new fairy tale.
However, I know a few little things that leave me here, on a night similar to the one where we first met: warm, slightly humid; a hint of a new season to come. In the discovery of you, of learning you, I met a part of myself that I have completely fallen in love with. Instead of the love story of you and I, I found the final piece of the love story of myself and I.
In the songs I hear that I think of you, I think of the story I found for myself.
Windows down, Charlotte heat and wind blowing in my hair, through my fingers, my clothes. My ribs ache with the feeling of being alive and young. Every sense I own bleeding the songs I listen to and writing stories around them.
It smells like summer now and the warmth of it is seeping into my bones. My skin pricks with the idea of all the season has to bring for me. Lake, boat, jet ski, family, jumping off docks, running into the sea's waves, my feet burrowing into the cold sand, my shoulders tingling with a light sunburn, the feel of a cold can of beer on my finger tips... the heat of a good cigar between my fingers as I smoke it down to the nub, the warmth of scotch winding its way down into my stomach, and the hazy smoke enveloping me as I slide down into the lovely edge of the world I carved out for myself.
I dream of bringing you on these adventures with me.
Lindsay dreams.
I close my eyes and I can almost see them playing out... the smells and sights of sharing my life with you.
It would be magical.
I wish you were around for more of the adventures that I'd like to bring you on. That we would go on half of the adventures we talk about going on.
I want to go to the beach with you, and the mountains, and into the twilight.
We come with bruises of every shape and size, of light yellows and dark purples, indigos, and fading blacks. They're mental bruises that we can't wipe away and likely never will. I'm not afraid of them, but I know I prod them out of curiosity. Out of wanting to know. Your past is yours. I would never ask what you're not willing to share. Hell, there's a future in front of us that we could make while wiping away part of the bruises of the past. I feel the push away from me and I quietly wait, hoping that one day you'll see what I mean. Time tells all.
Until then, I listen to 400 Lux and I think of the times I've picked you up and you've picked me up. We always have each other's backs.
I think of my arm out of the passenger seat in your car, feeling the entire world on the palm of my hand. I think of how many times I've wanted to reach out and hold your hand while you drape your fingers over your steering wheel and talk about nothing while we drive down the streets of our neighborhoods. I think of our complicated friendship that I still know I screw up sometimes.
I've crawled out of bed and put pants on because I've wanted to see you.
I have no idea of how you feel about me. But this, ultimately, isn't about you. I don't expect anything, anyways.
This is about me.
I'm finally learning how to trust everyone and to let them into my parts of my heart that I'm not always comfortable sharing. I'm finally letting people see my bruises. I'm finally in love with the bruised peach that I am. Sweet on the inside, soft, full of life, memories, and with a few spots that even the best farmers couldn't hide. Imperfect, and by that standard, beautiful. Once I was told I was a viking and that was the best compliment I ever received. I forge ahead. I need adventures.
Little thoughts like that keep me the way I am.
I dream of the day someone tells me, "anything you want."
I dream of "anything for you."
I dream of the day that I am just as willing to say the same thing to them.
I like the idea that I have never really ever said no to you. That's stunning to me. I tell people "no" all the time. They don't make me feel uncomfortable. They don't criticize me. They don't call me out on my bullshit or ever push me to be better and that just pisses me off. I push myself to the brink all of the time. I want someone to tell me to be better, to work harder, to keep challenging myself to kick ass. I want you to make me uncomfortable because you don't just give in. You ask questions that force me to think differently.
I don't always agree with you. In fact, I've often disagreed, but I've never seen you hold that against me. You have simply given me your view and left it at that. I have always listened.
Sometimes I don't listen well, but I remember it in my heart. This has been a slow burning, learning kind of heat.
Often I have wondered, "Who is he, really? Who is he, that won't always tell me everything?" Instead of prodding, I have taken that mentality home. "Well, who am I? I don't tell him everything. In fact, he likely knows little about me. I will try harder next time to give him more information. He is not obligated to tell me everything." I think about it quite often. In thinking that, I have learned a lot about myself. I have been spoiled, mean sometimes, demanding, and insufferable. Young, stubborn, selfish. I've finally become wise by learning, by being uncomfortable, by exploding through my personal issues and overcoming the thoughts that hold me back. I have forced myself to open and to swallow my pride.
I wonder if you've gone through similar revelations.
I see stories I've told you about myself that I never shared with anyone before. I sometimes share them multiple times in a row before I'm politely reminded that I shared them before. My thoughts cheat on me.
I spent a year alone traveling and never really talked about all of my stories. I've finally started sharing them and I'm finally feeling up to the reminiscing. I'm finally up to sharing the ridiculous life ventures I never talked about before.
I like to share them especially with him.
Stories still keep with me, snippets of time that I can't erase from my memory.
Your finger on my leg, jokingly sliding my dress up my leg, me too embarrassed (and honestly pleasantly surprised) to say anything witty except to just blush and mumble.
A first kiss shared on the downtown Charlotte streets that I had been hoping for for far too long.
Me making an ass of myself in Asheville. The shame I felt both that night and the next morning because I ruined what could have been my chance to say something about how I felt. Maybe do something about it.
How many times I've sat, way too quietly, saying nothing, next to you because I sometimes just never knew what to say and was far more interested in what you had to say.
The one time I walked away, irritated, because I didn't want to be treated like a lady by you. I wore that beautiful red dress, it was cold out, and all I wanted was for you to tell me how pretty I looked and then kiss me--and really, really mean it.
Every single time I've looked at you and thought just how utterly stunning your eyes are.
Lindsay things.
Like I've said before, though, these aren't things I ultimately expect you to think about. They're things that have shaped and taught me. They've made me who I am.
He likely has never thought of me in that way, and that's perfectly okay. Even though he's made an impact on me, and I may have made one on him in some way or another, I have pushed the envelope enough for me to think that there isn't a future there.
I've never asked a man on a date. I've asked him.... or well, I think I have. Perhaps I'm just not good at that. Perhaps I'm not good at explaining my intentions. I also don't press people to reciprocate feelings they don't necessarily have. That's only fair, right?
In the end, I have this stunning story of one of my best friends in my head and the impact they have had on me.
I still see dreams swimming in my head.
I see me reaching out for his hand, grabbing it with a smile on my face, and dragging him into the tides of my adventures. I see his eyes and his smile as he falls into the waves beside me.
I see us hurrying away from the ocean because the high tide is coming and we're running to the dunes laughing, our eyes shining against the stars in the night sky over our heads.
I see us falling away into the twilight, the world at our fingertips.
I see us telling stories together, and it's beautiful.
I see you, and in you, I see me.
It's exhilarating and I'm happy I found at least one love story--the one I looked to find for so long. The love story to me, from me. Because of you.
It tastes like chocolate.
