While You Were Away ✈ (On Edition)

01. Weed

As I sit on the balcony, hiding my head between  my legs, forehead resting on my knees, I start to regret it. The rain has soaked me, from head to toe, and I couldn't care less. I've no inspiration left in my body, I haven't painted in weeks, and that's because all I care about is he, his big blue eyes and the way he kisses me.

If I hadn't agreed to transform into his mistress, then I would've at least five new paintings ready to be sold at the Flea Market on Sunday, I would still talk to my parents and I wouldn't be here, alone, and wet.

There's a thunder and the city lights up in blue, drawing an image of his face in front of my eyes. Yes, I might be losing my mind... but I've also read that when you're deprived of sleep your mind starts to hallucinate, and I haven't slept in twenty-four hours so...

I shrug it off and return to my misery. Overreacting floods in my veins, what can I tell you? I'm from a family of artists. My father is a writer, my mother a ballerina and I'm a  painter so the drama is inevitable. Nonetheless, I can't deny happiness isn't what I've been dealing with lately, quite the contrary really.

As I dive down in reasons to break it off, my tired subconscious drifts into another flashback. This time, it's the day we met: Middle December, London, an art gala at Carnaby Street. He's wearing black trousers, his torso covered by a Yves Saint Laurent leather jacket --I've heard him explain to a reporter. Our eyes playful, stealing glances and smiles, and my heart aches of how naive I acted, how starstruck, that I never noticed the ring on his left hand.

Squeezing my eyes, I shake my head. The past is in the past, I cannot change my actions nor my decisions and I don't want to. Lack of sleep might plot against him, to end it, but my heart doesn't want to, my heart wants to carry on, my heart wants to stay.

The stupid, vital muscle misses him, so, so much. Not to be a clingy person or something, but when we're apart, his absence feels so heavy that brings insomnia (thinking of him, and his wife, in their shared bed), brings boredom (because there's no enthusiasm in painting when the muse is gone) and a hole in my soul that only heals when he's back, with a dozen lillies hidden behind his back and a kiss I wish could be eternal.

Alright, maybe I am a clingy person.

"Harps," Louise calls, head peeking from inside the house. I look up. "What are you doing here?"

"Thinking."

"About him?"

"Yeah," I mumble. "I haven't seen him in a month."

A mischievous smile curves Louise's cherry lips. Her eyes turn into crescent moons and she starts to twist from side to side, giggly. "Well, that might as well have changed."

"What?"

She beams, "He's here."

"What!" This time I'm yelling, eyes wide and heart hammering. "He's here?"

Louise gets all rosy, holding my hands as her feet jump excitedly, "Yes!"

In a burst of yells and giggles, we hug quickly before I run straight to my dream coming true. God, I've been waiting weeks for this. For him, and his gleaming brown curls. His tender, loving eyes. To finally, lastly, touch his lips and be transported away for my silly and unfounded misery. For him, I'd wait a month, and more.

"Aaron," I murmur. He turns towards me, and the way he stares is so intense, his blue eyes probing into me, like he approves of everything I am, although wet, messy, with ran mascara under my eyes.

He looks tired, more than the last time I saw him, with facial hair growing past a sexy appearance. He seems older,  almost pairing his age with Mrs Big Nose (his, gross, wife). Man if she's sucking all his youth! But let's not focus on that. My boy is here, home, and even though I'm the picture of a mess, he wants me, his eyes show it, adoration dancing around his irises. I can handle a beard.