FAST LIFE BLUEZ | short stories

Classic

I’d never been a fan of classical music, and the thought of opera singers made me sick, but today, I was ecstatic. Happiness coursed through my veins because I was here with him. We were in a bubble of newfound adoration that I hoped would never pop.

Everything about him was perfect. From the way the sides of his mouth crinkled, even though he didn’t have dimples, to the way he looked at the clouds. It wasn't the type of perfection that meant he was gorgeous or had the right words for every bad day, but the kind that meant he was more than enough.

From the moment we met, time seemed to stop. And maybe that’s cliche to say, but there was no other way to describe it. Every moment, every touch, every glance, was slowed down. They were put under a microscope for me to analyze and store as an irreplaceable memory. I savored his presence like the dessert we’d just devoured, like any moment he’d disappear.

I was crazy, stupid in love. The wildest part? I could have my heart broken at any time. He could look at me right now and tell me it’s over and walk out of my life. He could reach into my chest and rip the beating organ from beneath my ribcage like it was nothing.

And I couldn’t care less. There was no time for worrying when there was time for hugs to be offered and kisses to be shared. I faced the facts a long time ago: I’m powerless. I control about as much in my life as a sun controls when it sets.

So I’m going to love him while I can, for as long as he’ll let me. I’m going to shower him with jokes until his stomach hurts and cover him in hugs until his tears dry. After all, it’s what I do. I go all in. I lay every card down, showing my whole hand.

The worst that can happen is it doesn’t work out. Sure, memories will plague my mind of sweeter times, but people will come and go. That doesn’t mean we can’t sit down with them before they tie their shoes and head out the door.

What’s the point of anything if you don’t go after what you want and succumb to fear? You’ll only end up alone, sipping a margarita on your hand me down sofa while you watch your cat leap across the furniture.

So that’s what I planned on giving to him - my time, understanding, and compassion. There was no one else I’d suffer through two hours of Beethoven for.

His eyes sparkled as he sipped his wine, reaching across the table to intertwine our hands. We'd drink this now, and I'd go home to my boxed Sangria later. His palm was how it had always been - warm, gentle, and rough from a hard day’s work.

And that’s when he said the words I’d been waiting so long to hear.

“I love you.”