Of a fleeting love affair

Stylistically, I borrowed from Henry Miller who I had been reading at the time and has always been an influence on my more auto-biographical pursuits, especially in regards to women. I can't deny the evident lechery and shan't make myself up to be more than I am: a coward and a cur, ever unsuccessful in love. There is little I do well, and in so suffering now for my lack of conviction and courage in the face of another whom I so adored, I seek respite in the distractions of typing the inked in words from books to their digitalised counterparts. This is from a time, a little while ago, where I battled in my mind for a decision as to whom to give myself to. Regrettably, I lost both.

I saw her there; golden hair splayed out like spun strands of sun-tipped cloud. Effervescent, though it may sound, but she really did ignite some colour upon the overall pallor of that room. For myself, especially. I looked her way, in passing, unaware of any glance that had inconspicuously enough been passed in my direction- as would have it when one walks into an establishment un-expected, un-warranted and unwise to their concentration.

   I maybe let my look linger, hoping she’d feel me and turn. A fairy-tale. I carried on, passed to my quarter and made my small talk short and swift, the breeze becoming its significant other, it drifted away with barely a passing sound, but pleasant enough to see business, as expected, taken care of sufficiently. I went to my tasks; my results being more important than the spontaneity to which I conducted myself, but no matter. The letters keep coming, the money dries up, the debt amounts and we keep laughing, fucking, drinking and pissing it all away. There blows that breeze again. So my cash flow slows. No worry. It’s not the first time I were hungry- at least I pre-emptively packed out my fridge! Hunger weighs little upon the conscience when one seeks for love. Love. I wonder. What is this blessed thing that rings, so often, but rarely true. A sound, a feeling, a noun. Love, so we searcheth for it- seeketh it where we may, at the end of a night where much more is forgotten. I felt for her, certainly. I felt her, even more so. We had “feelings”, then, for one another, and sweet on me, she seemed, sure enough. That’ll do- for now, for when expectations do not resound so greatly, so much easier is our notion fulfilled. Let love lie and allow us.

   I passed her again and still I went uncoordinated by a sign from her eyes that might instil me with a greater cause. I walked on, nearing her, looking still, but undaunted.  I thought about speaking to her. Would that raise suspicions with due course to the note that I’d left her? How could I know. Would she rather discretion? As I pass her, silently; still thinking about her hair- so much of it, how it draped her, how I held it as she pressed her scent into mine- I notice the man who notices my stare. He knows more than that, that I made public aware of my desire for her. What more will become of his knowing if he finds how she acts not reprovingly towards me, also? I distract myself from my machinations on the grounds of reason and preservation of her reputation; an anti-ego, of sorts, which acts as a soft blanket for my truth: cowardice. Oh, Lothario, why do you crawl like a worm? Leaving, I take time to pause and stop by the window. I push my forehead against the cool glass and stare vaguely across streets and houses, barely aware. Their vacant plots mimic my own empty-headedness. The glass before me fogs up from my breathing. I think about waiting for her. An hour or so- easy time to kill. But… Then what? A quick drink? An easy half-hour. And then what about the other girl I said I’d see for nine? An old conviction or a new taste? Crude terms. Crude behaviour. One fuck or another. One great disappointment for another, smaller, but more fresh. That can change the way, in the future, you are perceived, but by the other, you can always be forgiven. I think to wait it around. I call it an hour on one, hope to catch her, walk a few minutes and kiss her goodbye; keep her sweet. I’d probably see her tomorrow, anyway. And then? Then I’d hightail it back, almost in time to catch the other. Give her a call and smooth over my tardiness (besides, I’m always late…) and spend my night with her. I tell her I was taken up by writing (equally true.) and so got back late. How could she argue? A perfect plan? Who knows. I consider myself a swine and a devout vagabond. Cavalier. Quixotic. Cunt. (No offence, ladies…) I retreat to a public house, severely brimming, and order a beer, waiting for time to pass upon its knowledge. I wait for Romance and Love. I wait to fill myself, becoming every day less of what I was once and all the while, growing closer to becoming something entirely different. I pass my days growing further from the trees that originally rooted I. My thought expands and my body races in pursuit of it, converging with others along the way as my mind lingers on their personhoods and identities awhile. I bloom and am scattered again by the dissonance of unanswered questions and a reluctance to grant temporary truths a quantity more of essence, so that they may last longer than a single life. A whole life is lived and dies in a night. I am alike the mayfly. I long to be more, to live longer, than the mayfly, whose heart beats so fast, who loves so much, so soon, and then is gone. A meaningless dance in the tumult of a soft spring evening. My wings carry me so hopelessly as my nature dictates. I smile for the sun, that it warm me, and I wonder how long until it implodes.