She Loves Me

We met at a bright bar. She was wearing the kind of dress that told me she loved being beautiful. Though we’d spoken in a few text messages, we knew very little of each other. She told me she’d ‘stalked’ me - the sinister vocabulary of the social media generation. We went on to ‘rape’ each other frequently. After a while, on ethical grounds, we agreed to change the term to ‘hijack’. Not a whole lot better really, in hindsight.

Not many nights later, we were entwined, embracing in spite of everything: in spite of the distance, in spite of the heat and in spite of the darkness. To spite the darkness.

There were to be lighter times, too; the weight we respectively bore became distributed between us. ‘We get to carry each other’, I painted on a square canvas splattered in colour, after we’d known each other a couple of years. She displayed it in her room, and hid it under her bed every time I dropped her. Which was often, at that time.

Though obscurity often muddied our love, the romance was rife. I made us a soundtrack, so we could construct our narrative around Chet Baker, Nina Simone… Sometimes she accused me of pretension, but I knew my coy romanticism was part of the appeal. So I kept it up.

At the beginning, I’m not sure if I was a good friend, or even a good lover. Later, as I stood to lose her, I knew I was a fantastic fuck, and an undoubtedly terrible friend. I’ve never been sure when our entwinement grew roots so deep that it could be called ‘love’. On days when I was feeling lighter and stronger, able to carry her, I told her that my entrancement in that bright bar was the beginning. On darker days, I told her that I didn’t know anything.

We began writing to each other, although we were sleeping together every night. For her birthday I wrote her a story to go with our soundtrack. She cried as I read it to her, one chapter for every song. I had written a beautiful story – a kind of medley of Romeo and Juliet and a Woody Allen film.

I can still see just enough. I see that I’m lucky she’s still here; I see that part of me resents her for not leaving. I can even still see the light, sometimes. And there’s no doubt that we had light. Light enough to flourish. The first postcard she sent me from the other side of the bed, said: ‘Let it Grow’.

Now, there’s just enough light to survive. ‘It’s not dark yet,’ Dylan assures us on the last track.