This Love

January 2004

It began with a pair of scissors, a strange way to begin things. But the entire situation turned out to be strange and much more complicated than scissors could ever hope to be. She picked them up absently, examining the cold, aged metal. The classroom was empty for the moment; her English instructor, after asking for a brief word, had run off to a quick meeting. She promised to wait and that was how she had come across the scissors, standing beside the desk and gazing out the window. She saw various groups of students exiting the campus, most chattering animatedly, laughing at some inside joke. She did not think much on them. She never did.

He stood behind her, examining a poster above her head. He was tall, incredibly so, and wiry, but nonetheless good-looking. She had known him for a little over two years; they had shared a math course once and he had offered to tutor her. She was fairly sure she was in love with him.

Of course, there had to be a problem; high school seemed to her to be one long tape roll of problems, to which she kept sticking. He was dating her best friend, and had been for the past year.

She found the situation funny, in a bitter sort of way. She finally fell in love, but with her best friend’s boyfriend. It was a common situation; she hated herself for it, a bit.

“What are you doing?”

His voice, low and amused, made her jump. She turned, grinning and held up the scissors.

“You shouldn’t play with those,” he chided mockingly. “Give them to me.”

“Or what?” she taunted, stepping away. He didn’t reply, but grinning devilishly, moved closer to her.

Her heart fluttered wildly against her breast; he towered over her, a handsomely hulking figure. He reached for the troublesome scissors; she tried to hide them behind her back, raising an eyebrow.

“Let me have them,” he commanded, widening his clear eyes.

“Oh, no.” She scooted sideways along the desk. He looked sarcastically exasperated and laughed as she hit the whiteboard behind her. A moment passed; he was suddenly in front of her, his large hands holding her tightly against the board.

“Don’t make me –’’ he ceased his threat when she squirmed, trying to escape. Her shirt pulled up a little, revealing the pale skin of her stomach.

He tickled her, long fingers gently torturing her exposed skin.

“Oh!” she gasped. “That’s not fair!” She burned under his touch, delighted and despised it.

“You’re too skinny,” he remarked, tickling earnestly.

She twisted again and his hand lightly brushed the subtle curves of her breast. Her heart skipped a beat; his breath quickened.

He backed away, gazing at her with wide eyes. She stared back, biting her lower lip nervously. He watched her in a sort of fascinated horror and she trembled slightly.

“Ow,” she whispered, feeling a sharp sting in her finger, bring her back to herself. She glanced down; the scissors had cut into her skin. He removed the lethal blades from her weak hold and took her wounded hand into his. Blood threatened, but none came.

“It’s alright,” he said, smiling tenderly.

“Stings,” she replied, wincing a little.

“I’ll bet.” He was looking at her in a new, curious sort of way. She felt herself shiver. He tore his eyes off hers – reluctantly, it seemed – and kissed her finger softly.

“Better?” he asked, his eyes locking with hers again, enveloping her hand in both of his. She nodded, unable to speak and not entirely sure she wanted to. He did not release her; she hoped he never did. She stared, captivated by the sharpness in his gaze.

He used her trapped hand to tug her toward him, until she stood just before him, space a nonexistent thing between them; she continued to gaze up at him, even as he bent his head and kissed her.

She was surprise, naturally, though not at all displeased by the sudden turn of events. His kisses were soft and sweet, sending ripples of fire shooting through her. She had never been kissed quite like this before; she’d had a boyfriend in her first year; he’d kissed her cheek once. It was a curious thing, kissing. She often wondered how one could enjoy such a thing. It had never appealed to her … before now. This … this was wonderful. She lacked the words to describe the perfectness of his hands holding her tightly, his lips moving over her own.

She held him to her; her brain whirled merrily in her head. She delighted in noting he quivered when she began to kiss him in return.

She felt the cold of the whiteboard against her back again, felt his hands gripping her against him. Her heart beat rapidly, having no particular rhythm; it hit her chest at random intervals and perhaps more often than it should. She wondered how her body could stand this, if she would fall into a fatal faint in a moment; how could anyone stand this? She thought she might write a book on it, and title it “Surviving Make-Out Encounters.” Or something along that vein.

Many times in her life – as I’m sure most everyone does – she desired to read minds, but never so much as now. She longed desperately to know what he was thinking; if his skin felt aflame, as her own did, if he saw bursts of lightning behind his eyelids. He lowered his lips to the sensitive skin of her neck, kissing her tenderly and murmuring her name. Her name; no one else’s. She said nothing in return, but smiled to herself and hugged him to her.

She was not, by nature, a very sexual creature; she did have a feeling that things might have progressed beyond kissing against a white board, but would have hardly objected.

But for the door.

He heard it before she did; he backed away, avoiding her eyes. She considered doors and could not decide if she loved or hated them.

And of course, who should enter but her missing professor and her best friend. Both entered laughing; the moment she saw the other girl, her heart sank to somewhere around her knees. A thought crossed his mind, and hers.

Dear Jesus, what have I done?

Her professor, a disturbingly insightful man, titled his head to the side, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. An immeasurable amount of guilt crashed down upon her; for a moment, she believed a faint was due.

The spell passed; she cleared her throat.

“I just remembered … a very important engagement,” she lied quickly. “I have to watch my brother for the afternoon. Can we meet tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Her professor nodded, still staring hard at her in that eerily perceptive fashion.

“Er … right. See you.” She scooped her belongings into her arms and bolted for the door.

“That was strange. Is she all right?” the other girl asked, turning to her boyfriend.

It was odd, when you have lived so long doing one thing, only to be awakened to the world around you.

Her world, once upon a time, consisted of school, her best friend, and her dancing. She fancied herself a decent ballerina; much higher praise had been beaten into her by instructors, and her mother. She enrolled herself in every AP class available to her, working hard and never giving thought to the world around her. Her nature was not one of a social person; she spoke to the girls in her dance courses, exchanged a friendly word with those in her academic classes. It was not that she looked at herself as above everyone else, or that she was incapable of making friends; she simply preferred solitary quiet and focused her attentions on classes.

But as she exited her first period AP-Economics class the very next morning, she found herself considering for the first time those who wandered the same halls as she; she watched giggling hordes of girls pass, joking boys teasing one another and laughing loudly, or else deep in discussion over events regarding the previous evening; a hysterically sobbing girl hurried by, futilely comforted by a concerned friend. And everywhere she turned, there was a happy couple to be seen, hands linked, gazing sappily at one another.

It was a world for which there were no books, only tests, and where one was simply tossed in, without swimming lessons; she had drown long ago. She felt an incredible wave of loneliness overwhelm her. For a moment, she forced away bitter tears.

“Hey.”

It was him. She cringed at the sound of his voice; he who had awoken her to her social death. She could not decide whether to hate him or love him for it.

She faced him, in any case, once again meeting his hypnotic gaze. His girlfriend was nowhere in sight.

“Can we talk?” he asked, looking up as the tardy bell rang. She hardly noticed it.

“About yesterday?” she replied, praying she sounded flippant, as though the situation was nothing more than a really tiny particle of dust, as thought what had taken place the day before was hardly worth fussing over. As though he did not matter to her.

“Well … yes,” he said, biting his lip anxiously. She thought he looked gorgeous when he did that, sexy.

“Why? It doesn’t matter.” She laughed a little, wishing she felt half as confident as she sounded, and turned to leave. She was going to get a cut from her AP-English 4-IB class. Naturally, that was more important.

“It doesn’t?”

The quiet disappointment in his voice made her freeze; she could act indifferent no more, not when he sounded like that. She closed her eyes; she saw couples parading mockingly around her, sneering in a terrible sort of glee, her best friend and him smirking widest. Her heart ached for him and tears threatened again, more determined than before. She loved him; God forgive her, but she loved him with all her heart.

“Of course it does.”

~ fin ~