He was one of Twenty-Six’s childhood friends.
He was beautiful, too – not in the same seductive way, but rather, in a way that made her stare, enamored, attempting for hours to comprehend him, his ways, his beauty… his pain. And, moreover, his way through pain
She felt it like a strong punch in her gut, but one that did not hurt even if it took her breath away. It happened every time she looked at him, every time the huge orbs of his eyes found hers. It was like waking up suddenly, like looking through some chasm punched through the universe into an alternate reality.
She was sure she loved Nineteen; and she was equally sure he did not love her… except, perhaps, in that genuinely-good and gentle way he loved all people. Except that, sometimes… maybe… she saw some glint in his eyes, felt his hugs linger longer than a friend’s should….
All she knew was that she loved him – every time she saw him, every time she thought of him, every time she saw his work, every time she went near his shop. She loved him, and she would happily accept nothing more than a pleasant friendship just to be able to spend some amount of time with him, just to see him interact with others, just to perhaps be there for him in some time of need.
She used to have fantasies of being with him, fantasies she burned like paper in her mind, with nothing more passionate surviving than the momentary glint of a heartfelt wish as the thought drifted up and away on the currents of her mind. Nothing but fragile, black carbon would remain of her secret desires.
Still, she loved him.
It had been years since she had met Twenty-Six, passionate years filled with tumultuous interactions that occasionally filled her with so much love she spilled again and again like a river onto a broad delta; passionate years filled more often with so much pain that it felt like the earth itself had been sucked dry of every drop of rain.
She hadn’t known they were friends, when she met Nineteen. When she learned, she held it secret from both men, not wishing to be the bridge between them; not wishing to have either as the bridge between them all. She loved them both for different reasons… and, for different reasons and at different times, her love for one seemed more sane, more possible, less difficult even in times of difficulty than her love for the other.
Who cared, anyway, whom she loved? Would either of them change his way towards her – except to try to protect her, to protect the other from his potential interest in her, leaving her bereft and even more alone than she was now, caught somewhere in-between? At least this way, in her silence, she could preserve her love for them both, could swing, unnoticed and unspoken, from one to the other as her own heart dictated its present need.
She wondered, too, if they would understand; if anyone would understand. She didn’t know why, but she loved broken men… perhaps – she realized when she considered Nineteen – it was because she loved superheroes. She loved the broken man turned whole again as she was a broken woman become whole again in a new way, like an intricately-beautiful mosaic made of pieces of shattered pottery.
Nineteen had something of that, far more than Twenty-Six had. Nineteen did not give up; he kept making beauty, kept finding beauty, kept being beautiful and reflecting the beauty of his friends, family, acquaintances, and of all the earth in his art. Kept risking everything.
To Thirteen, this was the most exquisite thing on the earth: Nineteen was like a mosaic made of broken mirrors that only became more interesting, more fantastical with every new shard.
And, though Thirteen knew she saw this in him, she wondered, always, if Nineteen saw anything of the same in her quiet, shy attempt at polished presence.
Twenty-Six, however, was like an ancient Japanese bowl, broken and mended with gold… except that Twenty-Six never wanted his gold seen; he was too ashamed of having broken at all. Yet, Thirteen loved him for all that he was and boggled at his need for self-deceit….
Perhaps you do not yet know, but it is impossible to love someone who does not love himself. Or herself. It is impossible because they will reject every overture of true love; every gesture will be a great pain reminding them of all the things they’ve done (or thought they’ve done) for which they deserve punishment, not love. They will, at the greatest points of receiving love that they deem undeserved, respond with such fierce cruelty towards the one who loves them as to make themselves all the more undeserving, mounting cruelty upon cruelty, present upon past, the new love paying the price for everyone’s sins.
This, Thirteen bore for years with Twenty-Six, as with plenty of men before him. If only she loved enough, she believed, they would love her back; they would wake from their nightmares and find her there, loving; and they would be grateful, would love her in return. Even just a little bit.
But it never happened.
This was what Thirteen was coming to see in her life when she first encountered Nineteen.
She was single, pushed away by yet another conflict with Twenty-Six. And so, for so many reasons, she found herself careful when expressing herself to Nineteen, cautious like a feral kitten who wants nothing more than to love and be loved, who wants nothing more than a good scratch behind the ears that would inevitably and very quickly melt her into a puddle of purrs and forever-loyal adoration, despite her wild upbringing.
She was certain she gave away everything she felt when her eyes found his, every time. She was sure her eyes melted into great, blue pools as soon as Nineteen spoke to her, was sure he saw her offer her vulnerability up as a gift every time, which he took gently and never abused, always handed back after a warm exchange of words, and she felt herself touched with a glint of gold.
She went to see him this time to say goodbye.
She suffered with the knowledge that she was leaving, suffered because she loved him, suffered because she wanted to tell him everything, this time; to tell him that she loved him even if he didn’t love her in return; to tell him that no matter where she was on the planet, she would watch for him and his successes on social media, would be within reach, would always admire and love him for his gentle, honest ways and for his eternal positivity.
She wanted so much to reach out, sometimes, to just kiss him simply, to express her heart wordlessly. But nobody does that. Certainly, girls don’t do that.
She walked into his store, glanced around when she found no one near the entrance. ‘Well, why not?’ she asked herself silently.
“Nineteen?” she called into the other room.
He peeked his head around the corner, saw her and smiled warmly. “Hi! Thirteen, how are you?”
Thirteen beamed, as she always did when she received one of his precious smiles, given readily to all who entered his domain. “Hi! I’m good; how are you?” And she walked over to him, then found herself embraced, as he always did with her, as he did with all of his friends who came to visit or to buy something. Thirteen returned the embrace affectionately, squeezed herself tightly to him, breathed in his scent; then deliberately released Nineteen’s tall, muscular body.
His eyes flashed merrily and he grinned, “Thanks, I’m great. Working on a new project and it’s going really well. What’s new with you?”
Thirteen glanced at the ground near his feet and frowned momentarily. “I’m going to France for a bit. Traveling; I can’t pass it up.” She looked up into his wide, questioning eyes. “I wanted to say goodbye.”
Nineteen watched her with gentle curiosity, his eyes concerned but his voice reassuring. “Well, that sounds great! So, what’s wrong about it?”
I’ll miss you, she almost blurted. It’s stupid, but I’m in love with you.
She held her words, gazed at him silently as truths swam thick and quickly through her mind like a school of fish. She chose the easiest one.
“I’ll miss you,” she confessed.
Nineteen’s concerned look softened and he rested a hand reassuringly on her arm, “Oh, but you’ll be back. You’re sweet… and you’ll share everything, I’m sure. It’ll be beautiful. Where are you going?”
Thirteen managed to rattle off her anticipated travel plans while scolding herself severely for not being fully open with him. Just tell him the truth! she chided herself.
“…Nineteen…” she said, finally, looking into his eyes. “I’m in love with you.”
She paused, awaiting a reaction, awaiting something that would give her a clue as to her next confession. He was surprised, but only faintly; there was something of fear in his demeanor, and yet, he stood unmoving, generally accepting her words and their gravity with incredible patience.
“I’ve been in love with you for a while; you must know it. I can’t help it; and I wouldn’t want to help it if I could: you’re too handsome, too sweet, too gentle, too….”
Thirteen’s words trailed off as she watched his eyes change, softening somewhat, yet tainted now with some deep and unfamiliar intensity.
Thirteen inhaled sharply and felt her breath stop short, her body reading the look in Nineteen’s eyes fractions of seconds before her mind coagulated a conscious meaning. She felt a flood rush to her head, and his hands raised to her hair, gently pulled her close, and he kissed her.
It felt to her like all time stopped, that she moved in rhythm, in response without conscious volition, and like no conscious acquiescence was needed. She kissed him with the relaxed openness of floating in a still, warm pool under a bright sun; he kissed her with such measured intensity that every subsequent word became unnecessary as, spilling from his mouth to hers, he responded and explained all of the unspoken depths they had held, for years, having kept a friendly distance between them.
It was a conversation that would have taken days, had words been used. It was a conversation in which he acknowledged everything she had said and felt and meant in those few brave sentences that she pulled from her chest and gave to him. He kissed her, and in that kiss, kept everything outside of them away, kept every possible distraction far beyond the realm of interruption, this moment too important to stop and start again.
And, when he stopped kissing her, some minutes later, Nineteen looked taller, stronger; and Thirteen glowed with revived peace.
His eyes were clear, certain, when he looked down at her sparkling blue-grey eyes. His arms rested easily on her shoulders; his long fingers remained entangled in her hair.
“Don’t go,” he uttered, and the words sounded like a breath, like a whisper, like those quiet urgings spoken in one’s mind that we so often don’t listen to; that never punish us for not listening.
Thirteen’s eyes fluttered; her mouth twitched in stunned half-protest. Her full lips parted to speak, and he cut her response short.
“Don’t go. Stay here with me; you can move in upstairs. I’ll give you your own space if you want it, or you can sleep with me; whatever you like. You can come travel with me; I have several trips planned this year. They’re not in Europe, but… if you want to….”
What started as confidence grown of a true connection faltered only enough to give Thirteen the respectful choice of her independence.
“…If you want to, I would love to have you with me.”
Nineteen’s gaze shifted from a respectful request, from a plea, to a gentle sales pitch. His eyes twinkled as he spoke:
“I’ll teach you all I know. You can write, take photographs; we’ll explore the towns…. It will be nice to have someone travel with me.”
Thirteen listened, thunderstruck. Her eyes watched Nineteen’s glinting, merry brown eyes as he spoke; her heart pounded, demanding the obvious answer, threatening to jump out of her chest if she did not speak the answer verbally.
“Are… are you serious?” It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him; it was that she no longer trusted reality.
“Yes.” Nineteen smiled gently at her and shifted his hands to hold her jawline in his large palms. “Yes, I’m serious. Will you stay? Say you’ll say yes.”
Her breath stole the reply before she could think: “Yes. Yes…”
Thirteen blinked like she was waking up from a long and traumatic dream, terrible only because everything had been just slightly wrong; and this… this was reality.
“Yes, yes; yes, I’ll come with you. Yes, I’ll stay with you. Yes, oh my god, yes.”
Photo ©2012 MLM
Oceans of Mine 