salt water musk

0.

Crema, Lombardy, Italia
August 21st, 1981

My hands grazed his as we lay out bikes on the large bolder that sat on the cliff. Our feet dangerously close to the edge, the sea stacks looked so tiny I could cover it with my white chipped toes.

We sat at the cliff with our heads peered over, looking at all the mid day beach go-ers, as if we were some sort of gods. His laugh low and commanding like Zeus, the god of thunder.

There were many times I wanted to speak that day but almost always my words were limited. Maybe because I wanted to enjoy our time together or maybe because I was terrified I wasn't funny enough or that the more I speak the more he would hate me.

Although he didn't seem to mind, Not speaking that much more than me. I assumed, and secretly hoped, both of my reasons were the same as his.

Ive analysed him a million times yet I could always find another trait to keep my feelings strong. I watched as his mouth held a cigarette as he lit it. Oh how that mouth thing filled my stomach with butterflies. I never imagined the sight of seeing someone smoke could fill me with such foreign ideas.

I hated cigarettes.

Yet I had grown fond of his "smoke breaks". As he called them.

He moved closer, although that still meant out of grasp, his unique smell now entering my nostrils. One of salty Italian seas, cigarettes and his traditional aftershave. Somehow it was intoxicating.

So when he asked if I wanted to jump I probably showed not enough hesitation as I should of. His half smile crept up as he grabbed my hand interlocking our fingers, his calloused ones rubbing mine.
Don't do it, I though.

He was annoyingly unfazed at my touch. I almost felt sick from the butterflies he gave me. He had never touched me like this before, ever. How I wished time had frozen leaving us in this very moment.
Us staring down from this god-like cliff.
Me staring down this god-like man.

He was searching my eyes, for what? I don't know.
His grip tightened on my hand almost like a warning as if I to not let go. Stupido. He should know me by now. I could never let go.

And as our feet got as close to the edge as they could he turned and asked me the most cliché of questions, that I could always answer the same way, none the less. No matter how much he would eventually hurt my heart.

"Do you trust me?"