Thursday [The Heart of Life]

music drifts somewhere in the background. honky tonk dance tunes from an era she is not old enough to remember.

it is spring, the world is full of cliches and sunlight streams in through an open window.

she bites her nails and wipes the sleep from her eyes. whispers something under her breath.

she is deep in thought and her comment is probably full of malice

[you pretend not to notice]

there are moments of happiness that stay with you for always

[pour toujours. she's signed her letters that way for years]

the beginning didn't seem like much. there were no fireworks, no heartfelt declarations.

you met her in an alleyway.

a show you don't remember much about except you spent most of it with her.

she'd been sick all week. that night her first time out of the house in days.

inside, underage kids flirted with the freedom that was still to come.

outside, you sat and talked about relationships, containment, how people stifle each other in love.

she never wanted to be that way. you remember joking that these were conversations too intimate to be having with a stranger.

she laughed,

and somehow it didn't feel that way with her.

[it never has]

you hated her laugh at first. giggle giggle, high school and pig tails.

the kind of girl you were always intimidated by. drifting in and out of accents, trading characters.

you had no idea who she'd be next.

she has a way of reading you, knowing exactly what you're about to say. it was obvious, even then, that this would be the end of you.

it is these things you recall now. when the yelling gets too much and you spend your days dreading the next conversation. 

she smashed the frame of your favourite portrait once. a cigarette dangling from her lips and the smoke lingering around her face, she had smiled, but there had been no happiness there and for the first time in a while it had stayed with you for days.

you don't even recall what it is you did wrong.

once, in the doorway of her favourite bookstore she had kissed you and laughed at what your kids would look like. 

her eyes, your nose, her smile, your crazy hair.

they'd be beautiful, she'd mused, and then spent months browsing baby clothes, laughing intently at our look of horror.

now you wanted nothing more than to see her face imprinted on anothers. 

her features, maybe even her laugh. you would cherish it all.

maybe it would keep her here, save you from the inevitable spiral of losing her.

you will find out one day, from a friend you haven't seen in years, that she left the country. wild eyed and wild haired, she'd joined a band of gypsies somewhere. something about creating a better world.

you will smile at the thought. it is so her. 

the daydream will keep you going through work, the crowded train ride home, the front gate [squeaky and falling off its hinges, you really ought to fix that] and the front door, where you are greeted by squeals, tiny footsteps and a tired wife.

she would have hated this. responsibility was not her strongpoint. the idea of having children a prospect she only ever joked about to tease you, to keep you hoping for a future that would never happen.

late one night you will hear the phone cry out. a voice on the other end that you barely recognise will whisper,

"i miss you. pour toujours."

the line will go dead and the next morning you will wonder if it was just a dream.

you still see her sometimes, faces you think might be hers, but get lost in the crowd before they come into focus.

you wonder if she will haunt you this way for always.

pour toujours.

[you've signed your letters that way since she left. a secret wish into the dark. maybe it will bring her back one day]

even amongst all the pretending, the accents, the acting, she was always just herself. a fleeting glimpse of a life you weren't quite fast enough to keep up with.

holding her was like catching smoke between your fingers.

but then again, maybe it will be okay. maybe these moments will pass and she'll smile at you like she used to, and you'll know that all the cliches in the world wouldn't change the way the sun dances in her hair.

you look up. she is swearing at the computer again, a furrow in her brow from concentration.

a smile creeps across your lips and you kiss her.

there are moments of happiness that stay with you for always.

she is one of them.

pour toujours.