She sits up, wishing she could go back to that first evening. Yet wishes too, at the same time, that it had never happened, because she can never go back to before it all happened.
Throughout their relationship, she had had doubts upon doubts, one of the most recurrent ones being her obsessive fear of boring Ian to the point of losing him.
_________
I never really thought of why I love Anna, or of what I love about her. Yet, looking at her, rediscovering her, it all became clear: I don’t know if she’s beautiful, I never actually thought of that. But I do know that every single one of her features is uniquely mesmerising. Her blue hair, her neck, her mouth ... and her eyes. The way she looks at me, sideways most of the time. Her mischievous smile that makes me want to eat up her lips. Her arms and her nervous fingers. Her boy- short nails that she sometimes decides to turn into “witch nails”, long and sharp and painted. Her body.
I love her; her energy, her laughter, her mystery, her wit. Her shyness. I love that she is aware I know the feelings she expresses are so much less than those she shuts inside of her.
She was wondering out-loud if we would go out and explore nature or stay in the whole time. And if there were enough logs in the cabin or if she had enough birthday cake candles, or if ... Wait a minute. I abruptly pull on the leashes. Did she break up with me because I’m 25 and she’s 46?
No, come on, she can’t have left me because of that! Not her. True, we’ve never discussed this, but I know Anna doesn’t care about such things. Only people who care about what others think would worry about this, and Anna doesn’t. What does age difference, or simply age, have to do with love? That’s nonsense.
Now, I have always been attracted to women older than me, without ever thinking though that I’d one day fall in love with one. Other than that, it doesn’t make any difference to me. Love is love.
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Anna regards her face in the mirror, takes a deep breath then starts making the calculations in her head as she brushes her teeth.
Then she suddenly drops her toothbrush in the sink, grabs the towel and dries her face, and runs out of the bathroom straight for the entrance door. She opens it but there’s no one there. She must have imagined the doorbell. She shuts the door, about to head back to the bathroom but stops short.
Slowly, Anna turns her head, then her body. She’s once again facing the door. Her eyes fastened to the doorhandle, she senses the blood draining from her skull, and cold sweat gripping her neck and shoulders. Her whole body fills up with yesterday’s suppressed ache, and all she’s been bottling up for the past weeks, and she crashes down on the floor and starts shaking.
Everything goes blank for a few minutes. Then Anna sharply shakes herself out of the powerful void pulling her in, threatening to swallow her whole. Stands up and walks mechanically to the corner of the living room where her easel stands. She grabs her largest brush, drowns it in thick red paint and slashes it across the white canvas. Everything is still, until the doorbell tears the silence.
_________
Not caring about music is a concept I can’t understand. I was baffled.
Then he added, through his teeth with his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him, that there was nothing he could do about it. And that he was sadly aware his insensitivity to music might be a turnoff.
It wasn’t. His breath brushed my neck just seconds then I felt his lips ... that didn’t linger there for long. He slid back into the couch and took my right hand in his. And our wrists began to draw circles around each other, for infinite minutes. And then he looked into my eyes, took a deep breath, and said, softly, that it had dawned on him the second he saw my face, that our connection is organic, that he felt in his bones it was created in another realm. Then he dived back into his silence. A different kind of silence this time though, crowded, and chaotic.
I decided not to attempt to understand or explain; the blur around us was electrifying, and I liked the tickles of excitement. There was no need to overthink it.
How wrong I was.
_________
So far, my life has been filled with more ups than downs, and I know that the friends I’ve made over the years, those who stayed and those who vanished, and all the newcomers, all envy me and my thirst for life; they told me that. They do know how to have a good time though, and that’s all and the only thing I want of them. I’ve never tried to look for, wanted to have, or wished I had a close friend to confide in; my diary has always been my canvas ... Painting people I invent with the strokes of my brush and tell my stories to as I draw their features.