No bullshit, Pure Fuck – read her bio on the dating site. Three days later there was cheap whiskey, styrofoam cups, inexpensive painting, overpriced motel, fake moaning, scratches on my back, blood red marks on her neck, two intertwined bodies and two distant souls. “We’ll split the bill 50-50,” she said while dressing up.
We’d always meet in bars, get drunk and end up sneaking into wrong washrooms or in parking lots or dingy alleys. Alcohol became reason, reason became routine and routine became a habit. She became a habit. There’s only so much fuck your body can take. Your heart, mind and soul, I tell you, knows no boundaries.
Breaking the habit, I asked her if she would come to the place of my choice. A resistant her barely said yes. So I took her to the old bridge off city limits. Hung down legs, desires shot up, water played seek-and-destroy with pebbles, fireflies twinkled (or the stars?), homemade sandwiches and a thermos full of coffee. “What would it take for you to fall in love,” I asked her. “For others, a lifetime or two, for you, never,” she said.
She drank the bitter coffee from the thermos. “You writers. You love, you laugh, you talk, you walk off and then you hate. You suck experiences out of people and garnish them with fancy words. I would fancy ending up in your arms rather than in your notebooks,” she said. “This is the most you will have of me. Of me, not my body. From tomorrow, we’ll again meet in bars.” She said and kissed my forehead. God, I wanted the time to freeze, to stay still, to stay forever, to be zero. I wanted the river to stop flowing and the bridge to collapse.
Doom arrived and we walked straight into it. To fall in love, at times, condemns us to fall out of it. Years later, I spotted her in a downtown restaurant with a baby belly bulging out. “Remember me?” “How can I not,” I said and waved the notebook towards her. And she knew she was right. She ended up a just memory, a just another story in my notebook, wrapped up in fancy words