Lockdown | Conor Mason

Take a Little Spark

Even though it was a beautiful sunny seaside day, the waves crashing and a light noon breeze ruffling the trees below my balcony, I was so engrossed in my phone that when she appeared I jumped in surprise.

More than a month of her absence had taught me to stop peering over to her side of the deck, to see if the curtains were open, indicating she'd come home. 

So the metallic swoosh of the ancient sliding door startled me so that I dropped my phone on the wooded deck panels. 

I stood up hastily, and there she was, her small frame stepping outside and pulling the door closed behind her. Suddenly I felt a swell of happiness that warmed my body in a way my tea, set on the table before me, could never do.

My god. Had she always been this beautiful? Her hair, tumbling down her back in those wild waves, looked shinier and wilder than I'd remembered. Her small features, little lips and wide eyes set calmly on me, struck me, somehow betraying that unique combination she held of shyness and frankness that I had come to appreciate with more than a little affection. 

I was speechless. And in that moment I kicked myself, cursed at myself for being such a fucking idiot. 

Why had I stopped texting her? Why had I, after a week of her absence, decided it wasn't a good idea to keep in touch, to drop our interactions - which had always brought me so much joy -- like a hot potato? 

I couldn't even give myself a good answer. Sure, there was that one time I'd gotten blind drunk... but why had I let that stop me?

If she wondered as well, she didn't let on; just flashed that winning smile, for once completely at ease. One hand held a brown paper-wrapped parcel. The other perched on her hip. She smirked as she spoke.

"Alright or wha, Conor?" she asked, her voice light. Her Welsh accent was more prominent that I'd remembered - surely from being back home in Cardiff. 

"Yeah, alright, Amelia." I grinned back. "Welcome home."

--

Sometimes when I'm nervous, my brain takes over my thoughts in its bizarre, random way.

So it wasn't surprising when I stepped outside to greet Conor that, despite the butterflies ramming wildly against the walls of my stomach, all I could think was that he'd had a haircut, and since salons were still closed, he must have done it himself.

"Did that yourself then?" I pointed to the back of his head, and he reached around, feeling his neck, his eyes furrowed. "Haircut," I clarified. 

His eyes softened in realization, then narrowed in mock defensiveness. "Yeah, what's it to you? Looks shit, you saying?"

I laughed. It was so good to be back, to see his face, that face that had somehow gotten even more gorgeous in a matter of five weeks. He was bronzed from the spring sun, his teeth whiter than ever under his wide smile. 

"Nah, looks class! I really like it." I pushed my hair back over my shoulder. "Might get you to do mine, it must be two meters long by now, could give me a trim."

He giggled, and my insides melted into a warm goo. 

So he wasn't upset with me. What a relief. So many weeks spent wondering why, what had happened to him, missing the friend that I'd grown closer to than pretty much anyone...and made my heart flutter like a teenage girl. 

"When'd you get back?" he asked, bending to retrieve his phone. 

"Last night. Was knackered and went straight to bed." I gazed over at him, his face split with a wide grin. He wasn't just not mad at me...he seemed really, genuinely happy to see me.