The Man Whose Eyes Never Tire

8...

    It is a warm day in early September. I am sat at my typical home during the warm days; comfortably sat upon the swingbench residing in my backyard, taking in each breath of fresh air as if it were a token to be cherished - I know winter is coming. I lay on my stomach, seabreeze in hand, joined by my own company as I mindlessly read through short stories about age gaps; my fair fluttering in the gentle breeze as I sway. Between every few words I read, I recieve a new message from Mark.
    By the way, what do you like to be called? Love, baby, sir, daddy, darling? I ask him, blood rushing to my face as I bite my lip to control the nervous smile creeping onto me. I had been aching to call him Daddy since he first started talking to me; a term of endearment which had grown to be my greatest kink; his plethora of years beyond my own crafting him to be the most perfect candidate to receive this nickname. I was far too shy to bluntly ask him this, so this served as my escape route; a comfortable question I could use as a shield as I childishly hid from my desires. If he wanted to be called Daddy, he would tell me. If he did not like the idea, he, too, would tell me.
    Anything you would like to call me, baby, he replied, causing my eyes to roll with a giggle at the manner by which my plan had failed me. I was going to have to bluntly tell him that I have an urge to call him Daddy.
   Well, I know some people are not a fan of it, but I have always had a really strong daddy kink...I send him, and immediately shut off my phone and downed the remainder of my cherry-red drink, feeling the cool alcohol venture down my throat and make its home throughout my body. I fill with nerves as I wait for his answer; either he adores the idea as well, allowing my fantasy to continue unravelling in real life, or he does not like the idea, and promptly backs away from me. Remember what you told yourself, Julie, I think to myself. You are not allowed to get attached. If he drifts from you, it could be a good thing.
   My phone buzzes from beside me, and I feel my heart begin to pump faster and faster as I pick it up to check his message. I feel the blood flowing rapidly through my body. I love that, baby. I'll be your daddy. He is too perfect, I think. How is absolutely every element of my questionable dreams and fantasies coming true before my very eyes, all because of Mark; a man I met accidentally? I always tell my friends, in times that they are heartbroken over looking for boys, that they will never find the right one if they go looking for them. They must allow the boy to fall into their life when they least expect it. Perhaps it is fate, but I despise that word; it seems too spiritual, too make-believe, as though there is no basis in logic. I always need logic. I feel as though time is an already existing factor. We move through time rather than time moving through us. With this idea in my mind, I see my entire life already laid out for me just ahead of my field of vision, but never allowing me to see the next step. Everything that is going to happen in my life is already set to happen; it already exists in the already existing time; I just have yet to reach it. I visualise it as a long road which I am driving down: I am aware that there will be trees, I just do not know what type of trees I will see yet, nor do I know where along this path they will be; the only guaranteed fact I know is that there will be trees.

   How's school? He asks me one morning when he knows I am in class. Tell me all about it.
   Marks' constant interest in my personal life warms my heart like a cup of hot cocoa on a winter night warms the soul. I feel his love for me, and I allow myself to accept his love; I refuse to let myself look back on this with regret, wondering why I passed up such a beautiful connection to being sad, and worrying about the tragedy which may occur. I am loved by my older man, and he truly wants to know about my life. I tell him everything. As anything occurs in my life, I instantly feel giddy to tell Mark; I like letting him know about every detail in my life.
   As I arrive home, feeling my heart glow with affection for Mark, I decide to redecorate my room in a fit of girly boredom. Upon my black and gold marble patterned makeup desk, I remove all of my items and begin replacing them all in a new order, and with new items. I let the right side remain generally the same; my gold Michael Kors box from the bracelet I received via my aunt on the day of my grandmothers funeral guarded by my Good Girl perfume, golden, antique piano musical box which I received from my grandmother on the day she died, and a delicate figurine of a skeleton doing a yoga pose. Enclosing these items was a thick, gold necklace that my mother gifted me with; a necklace I wore nearly every day when I was in the tenth grade. On the left, I crafted a shrine, very meticulously: in the deepest corner was a patina-ridden yellow vase serving as the home to two delicate, faux red roses, to its side was a vintage pink candle in the shape of a heart, encapsulated by a foggy white glass with a pink rose upon it - how coquette! - and another delicate skeleton, for I always found an unexplainable beauty and connection with skeletons. In the centre of these items, I carefully placed Mark's business card which he had gifted me with on the day we had met - a token of our connection and instant attraction displayed in a state of casual ignorance. On top of it, I placed a necklace my friend had gifted me years ago as a joke which read 'Daddy's Girl', and paired it with the white, pearl earrings I wore to the jazz club on that fateful August night. To enclose the Mark Exhibit, I strung my white pearl necklace - the same one I wore that night - across as a border. I pondered at the display, overly pleased with my creation; a showcase of mine and Mark's adoration which I will think about each morning while I apply my red lipstick, staying as a secret to all other passersby of my room, despite being right before their eyes.
    I want to remember every last word Mark says to me. Incapable of knowing when we will stop talking to each other, or even if we ever will, I feel a foreshadowing force within my soul to treasure every feeling Mark has gifted me with thus far. I want to print out images of each one of his texts, stringing them on a line of delicate white ribbon around my room to dance above my eyes like stars in the night sky for me to lose my conscious mind at, never being able to forget about them. I want his words tattooed on me; permanent reminders that he once obsessed over me; he once adored me. I would die if I forgot just one of his phrases he had said to me; I honour them like words written by a philosopher; to be studied, to be analysed, to be referenced, to be remembered. I would die to forget how I feel in this very moment as he texts me his words of affection. I want to cherish every element of Mark. I want to keep him in my heart forever. I want to keep him forever.
   As a girl, madly in love with tragedy, I find nothing but beauty in our connection. I am delicate to him; I am delicate for him. Our connection is as beautiful as crimson red blood laying scattered on a blanket of white snow; the representation of pain on a bed of innocence. Our connection is as comforting as an abandoned train track in the dead of night; the beauty of feeling isolated, alone, but with a lingering fear of never truly being alone. Our connection is as beautiful as untuned pianos and delicate violins; the sound of dissonance ringing through a layer of perfectly articulated melody, the voice of the stringed instrument calling out as a heartbroken cry. Our connection is a beautiful tragedy yet to have met its doom.
   As we speak, I wonder how wonderfully this situation would look in an argument; my father and I, often fighting about how I desire an emotional connection; him viewing me as ungrateful for all he does. I imagine bringing up this situation then; "I knew you would never protect me, so I never told you about this man harassing me. I took matters into my own hands because I knew you would only blame me," I would say. I terminate this line of thought; Mark is not harassing me. He loves me, and I want him just as badly as he wants me. Perhaps I want him even more desperately.