Crown of Love

Baby. Honey. Sweetie.

How she hated when he called her that, but she was unfailingly at his beck and call.

How did it happen? That she ended up nestled in a romantic cocoon of hyper-reality.

He was her first. The naivety, semen clotting the hymen of hyperspace. Floodgates of sex, desire and loneliness. Was that why there were there? In a hyperspace of lonely individuals, sex starved perverts and predatory wants. What wax lyrical. What bullshit. What an absolute charmer.

King Kong, was it? They sat in the dark, hidden underneath her shawl giggling at the insipid couple beside them, the man’s odour wafting unwanted, uninvited.

What was it? His blue eyes? That daredevil reckless roguish Hans Solo grin? The fact he had watched King Kong 1993, 1976 and now she had finally entered, although only as company, on his film rolodex of King Kong 2005? Was it the argument on Stanley Kubrick, or the fact he could reduce her to a mumbling mess every time he tried to argue his point? No, he’s not one to trumpet defeat. He goes on, amassing victory after victory – national flags and anthems galore.

No wait. The first date was dinner. Italian. She had left her cardigan, and no it was not accidental, in his bag. He had left, but not before they walked down the length of town with his hands delicately positioned near her ass.

What was it about him? The fact that he needed his cup of coffee of the day, topped up with two shots of expresso and a sachet of brown sugar before he could properly function? That baristas would take one look at his to go mug and know the order immediately? That he’d take the time to read out to her in French from a page out of Asterix and how he ended up cringing at her abysmal, horrendous oration, as she ambitiously and shamelessly ploughed through pages of Dumas’s Monte Cristo?

There was a night, them sharing a fag with the ashtray on his stomach, blowing circles in the dark, the pillow damp beneath them. The pack of Dunhill reds lay ready at the side table, beside his current reading thrash, one cigarette flipped on the other end, waiting to be smoked last. Jamiroquai was in the background and she was thinking how surreal everything is. Or that time he was heavy into Shakira shaking his hips, doing his pitch perfect Cartmen and Ali G imitation just to hear her loud boisterous laugh.

And then she left and he left pursuing digits and flags, remnants of their memoirs in film scripts and memorable one liners. She was left nursing a rotting scab but as with everything else topped with a wise adage not to be refuted goes, “time heals all wounds”. They’d meet up every now and then, that company and insider jokes never to be comprehended by anyone else.

It was fun, hurtful, hopeful but what’s all that to him? No, no definitely not bitter. At this moment, she’s just sedately calm and just…glad that things happen the way it did. His rejection of her beliefs, tradition, religion and ultimately her made her realise never to settle, not for anything.

Ah.

Well.

I found this written a year back. Completely nutcase, delusional and emo. But in light of new events that just happened, seems apt that I should complete the last paragraph and just post it up.

This entry goes out to you my dear. You’ve placed Montreal on brimming prominence in my lovers map. I hope you’ll do justice to the dames in Ireland.

Your #30 – something ;)