Black Waters (Frank Ocean Love Story)

Chapter 十四

Christopher’s View. ▲ † 

(Most of the things in italics are his songs' lyrics.)

I dreamt of storms, I dreamt of sounds, I dreamt of gravity keeping us around.

There’s a thick, burning desire for a beach in my heart. I need to hear the waves of the ocean, birds skylarking above my head, I need to feel the warm sand beneath my feet. I need solitary. I need clarity.

I slept in the darkness, it was lonely, and it was silent.

Portland doesn’t seem to have beaches, though. There are just regular people wandering around. I scan the faces of the people passing me by, a lot of them staring at me reluctantly. They don’t want to come over and ask me for an autograph or a picture. They shouldn’t. They can see it on my face that I’m not in the best of moods.

And what is this love? I don’t feel the same…I don’t believe what this is could be given a name.

I have suddenly lost the urge to listen to Reggaeton. It’s a happy music. Forrest liked it. He was a happy guy, then again. He had no reason to be sad. The only reason he might have had was me, but he still managed to be joyful. I look up to Forrest…literally. I looked up in the sky and tried to see his face, his innocent, wonderful face. But I couldn’t see him.

All I could see was Ajahni.

Her face was traveling on a cloud. The cloud was low, really low, and moving faster than the others. What does that say about her? She’s low and moving fast? It doesn’t make sense. None of this make sense. I looked back down at the ground.

But I forget 23 like I forget 17. And I forget my first love, like you forget a daydream.

If there’s no beach for me to go to, I don’t want to be outside. I wanted to turn back, but knowing I couldn’t, I kept walking. It should be a sorrowful thought that I have a concert soon and must leave Portland. But instead, I’m happy. The next concert is in California, where there are beaches. Where I can find peace, where I can be alone.

The number for Roshon Solomon in the Yellow-pages was wrong. A girl answered the phone. It couldn’t have been Mia, because it didn’t sound like her, and I asked that girl several questions about Forrest. She could answer none of them. The number was obviously his old one.

So, now I must find the current one.

I’ve thought I might be taking this too far. I’ve thought that I should focus on my career, and stop using my time to search for someone that might not even care about me. My heart cringes at the thought of Forrest forgetting about me and not caring about me. He loved me, I know that for sure. But it was brotherly love. It wasn’t the type of love I developed for him.

No worries, though. I’m used to unrequited love.

I approached the store less hesitantly when I saw that it was completely empty. I was probably just the only one who cared to come, or who even saw the sign in the back of the Yellow-pages.

“Can I help you?” A chubby, mean-looking lady asked. She was leaning over the store’s little counter, popping gum and reading magazines. I didn’t want her to help me, but she could. So I nodded.

“In the back of this book,” I said, putting the Yellow-pages on the counter, “it said that if I had any questions about the information listed, I could come to my local Yellow-pages store. This is my local store.” I explained. She didn’t look up at me, and I felt bad for even coming. I should have ignored it.

“Which number is it?” Irene, as her nametag said, asked me. I turned to the dog-eared page that had Forrest’s number on it. I pointed to it and she stared blankly. Then she left without any further conversation, and didn’t come back. Instead, a skinny, light-skinned girl came back. She was squeezing her thick, brown curls in frustration.