Writer in the Dark

2 Spring, Year 1

  I did not make it to the store on that sunny new year's day. After meeting you, after spending those brief moments basking in the glow of your smile and the warmth of your gaze, I stumbled back home with a dazed expression and collapsed back into my bed to lay and be useless for the rest of the day. Thoughts fizzled out in my brain like drops of water on a heated stovetop, evaporating to disappear forever. I was left loose-jointed and dangle-limbed, staring at the patched ceiling above me and wondering idly if that feeling--when you smiled and made yourself a permanent part of my soul--was what it felt like to come back to life.

You are life. You are rebirth. You are inspiration, oxygen in my lungs, sunlight in the sky. I am thrilled to have met you.

Today, adrenaline rushes through me still. It is ice through every branching vein in my body, spikes of electricity in my heart, setting my nerves on edge and amplifying my perception. I can hear my own racing heartbeat, feel the blood pumping through my veins, hear subtle shifts in the air as ocean rises and falls. Because I have met you, the world is my oyster. I can seize the day. I can succeed. I just need to become truly yours first.

Completely avoiding my writing desk--why should I let my dying occupation drag me down?--I dance across my beautiful, rustic hut to the front door, practically singing out of utter joy. My eyes are wide. My head does not ache. All the alcohol has been flushed from my system yet I feel like jumping on a table and dancing. Perhaps now I could do as such without falling on my derriere.

Not today, though. Today is for shopping and, of course, for progress. On all fronts, I decide then and there. Today I would write, and grow closer to you, and overcome my fears. I would dance in the rain (well, I would dance in the rain another day, seeing as the sky had yet to weep a single drop thus far) and not worry one bit about the state of my fiery mane.

As I cross the bridge from the beach tunnel to the town, I take a cursory look around our sleepy little village to find you are nowhere to be seen. In every place my eyes are cast, I find no trace of your blessed existence and instead am greeted by the sight of Haley heading in my direction with a bored expression plastered on her attractive features. If only she knew what news I had to share.

"Hey, Elliott," she says as she approaches, looking like she has no clue how my mind races. She comes to a stop, and for a moment, my breath is stolen by the way the light shines on her hair as though the golden curls are lit internally. That sunlight continues down into her face, with eyes blue like the sunlit summer sky and cheeks made red by a semi-permanent sunburn. Haley can't tan but refuses to admit it to herself. Still, she exudes beauty despite her often seemingly shallow disposition. Even I, someone suddenly very sure of my homosexuality, can see that.

"Hello, Haley," I say, my voice smooth and even despite my unbounded excitement. "How are you this fine morning, hm? Out for a stroll?" Manners take precedence to familiarity, even when I'm absolutely bursting at the seams to tell her something, as I am now (excluding what happened yesterday, of course). I bow to Haley as I always do, and as per usual, she rolls her eyes in response. But I know she means little in the way of offense by doing this. It is merely her natural response to my formality.

"I'm fine, Elliott. Still a little hungover, but whatever. It was totally worth it." Last new year's eve, Haley had been too sick with the flu to fuel her excitement with alcohol, which was a shame considering that had been her first year to legally drink. I recall she drank enough the other night to make up for 22 new year's' worth of sobriety. "Where are you going? Pierre's?" she asks.

I lift my bent arm towards her and she automatically slips her slightly callused hand into the crook of my elbow. "Of course. What can a man do without coffee, hm?" We slowly make our way in the direction of the town's general store, ignoring the faint sound of the hellish jingles flowing from Jojamart's open doors. As each second passes, I want more and more to burst and tell her about you, describe the perfect shape of your lips or the length of your eyelashes, but find myself shut into silence. Perhaps Haley would not care. Perhaps she would disagree entirely with your beauty (which I find incredibly hard to believe--that anyone could not see your glory, but then again, Haley finds beauty in things, and men, that I would hardly glance twice at) and we would end up arguing. That would not do. So I stay silent, my hand clasped over Haley's.