In the summer of 2013, while sitting in the backyard of my garden, I saw Ander and fell for him immediately. He had moved in the same neighbourhood as mine, after his family had decided to shift into a permanent place in the city. There was a shy confidence in him that attracted me towards him and his awfully modest ways. I usually take it slow, but with Ander, we kissed on the very first day we met.
It was like one of those perfectly simulated games where nothing would or was supposed to go wrong.
Sundays are awfully quiet and I fear chooses to reveal its secrets to only those who are willing to accept it. As we walked down the road, my face bursting with a joy similar to someone who made out a short while back. It was easy for me to speak about it to Ander. But despite the fact that we were both adults, dutiful to our actions. I feared a glare on my soul and his, staring into our sins, my sins. The world scares me, it’s my guilty pleasure.
The dust filled road is just as similar to any other day, Sunday doesn’t affect it. I walk ahead, my hand interlocked with that of my lover’s; there are no promises. We choose not to take the bus and get ourselves a cup of coffee at a nearby cafe.
A little ahead on the same path as us, I point my finger at another couple, seemingly younger than us kissing, deeply, madly, furiously in love. My boyfriend gives me a slight stroke on my hand, asking me to stop pointing, reminding me that it is a bad manner.
I laugh and lower down my hand and walk some more. My senses tend to take me places, where no one can follow me. Love is not my thing and yet it has a mysticism that I can’t seem to escape.
We sit down and order our coffee, it runs through our veins bringing us back to our senses, almost bumping us into consciousness. We now talk of how beautiful the weather is and the daily headlines. We are normal again and so is the day.
Unconsciously, subtly, decisively.