Dirty Dancing.

 

While the extravagant swear by their Chanel no. 5, I sit here and figure the smell of three things that I like any day; the smell of soil after the rain, the smell of food when I’m hungry, and how he smells like in the mornings.

The music blared in the club and he held me close for cosy dance. While I let loose in between and moved around, he told me I seemed different. Matured was the adjective he used. As we walked into his room later that night I could tell he was uncertain of a few thoughts in his head. Impressed, nevertheless.

I wish every Sunday mornings began in his arms after a tipsy night, but we both know familiarity breeds contempt.

Going Away.

HERE

I sat on the floor abruptly without noticing the scissors slip out of my slim fingers. The childish sketch of mine stuck on the card waiting to dry and the pink beads half stuck on the sides, forgotten. Two nights ago, a lot of things changed. The way I felt in that moment, I still do. It circulates like the blood in my veins, at the back of my mind.I didn’t know there were so many things more to know about him when we both moved here to this dead city, which gave us so much life in return. Not that I wasn’t happy to discover all over again. I’d never know how he smells like in the mornings, how the fish he prepares tastes just like my Mother’s, how he watches the news every day. All these things I’d never know if we were just our 16 and 17 year old self back in our little town.

Now I wake up in the morning and suddenly it hits me, everything’s going to be different. It’s like sitting on a time bomb counting the days for it to explode and I know I’m not going to die but the wound will impair me all the same. I think I should pray but I don’t. I’m sitting here trying to find the reasons why I’m so afraid when I shouldn’t be. I’m wondering how I should begin telling you about it. I’ve told him I’m getting drunk on his birthday.

Of Vodkas and lies.

SOURCE

Vodka has never been a friend to me. Nothing good has materialized from our numerous mingling. But every time I think about her, who I thought was a dear friend, I prefer some more Vodka. When I woke up on his bed with a pounding headache, the text messages on my phone spelt trouble. The ride home seemed longer than usual; perhaps it was my mind delaying the displeasing intervention. Ph had already left for work sparing me from delivering an explanation to her.Relieved as I was, it infuriated me as well. There is nothing more despondent than having to lie about something that you are proud of. It’s not the Vodka or the hangover, but Him. But the backbone of my life is a circle.Welcome aboard.