All That I Need Is That Crazy Feeling

The Present.

Golden. Golden and brown. Your hair was what I first saw when I opened my eyes, its waves a tangled mess covering your naked back, shining in the rays of morning light that filtered through your half-closed shutters. I remember how much I laughed that first time you had your hair done, when you screamed indignantly that you looked like a surfer, and there were no surfer girls in your hometown. Yet here you were, ten years later, your hair done in the same golden hues. Beautiful, as always.

It took me a minute to gather my bearings. I could only focus on the way your shoulders moved, steady to the rhythm of your breathing. Your left arm was tucked under your pillow, your right one dangling off the edge of your narrow bed. You stirred, shifting your body, your left hip causing friction against my lower abdomen, and I sucked in a breath, my back against the wall, my body trying to desperately put distance between us. You made a small sound, deep, in the back of your throat, and I couldn't help the shiver that ran down my spine and the smile that settled on my lips. You radiated the light of a thousand stars then, asleep on your bed, and for a moment I felt wretched for doing this to you again. To us. To me. I had to get out of there.

You shifted again, turning onto your side and effectively putting space in between us, some golden locks cascading now down your front, hiding your breasts. I breathed a sigh, already missing the warmth that emanated from the closeness of your body. I could hear noise outside. A shower running. I had to leave.

I manoeuvred my way out of your bed, jumping over your body, grimacing at the pain that shot through my head. Thank you, vodka. I looked down at myself and cringed: I was only wearing my briefs and socks. After all this time, some habits die hard. I remember your giggle when you realised I was wearing socks, that one first time, when we were just two young, naïve kids who had not a care in the world except for their love for music and each other...

I went down on all fours, searching through all the clothes scattered on the carpet for my plaid shirt and jeans. Once I was decent, I walked to the door to your room. I opened it, but seeing the poster to the left made me stop. It was a drawing of us, playing the piano, on that wonderful night of shining stars, that night where you stole my heart, all those many years ago. How we'd sung to each other on that stage as if we were alone, how you'd met my eyes, the green specks in yours shining as much as the stars, and then looked down, shy, as I plunged forwards into your personal space and went for that glissando. You had been the brightest of them all that night, and I'd known then and there, as you played those last few chords, that I was yours, and I would probably be for a very long time. And I didn't care about anything else, not even when you shot me down barely hours after sharing such an intimate moment with me on that stage, because at that moment I only cared that I'd fallen in love with you, and I needed nothing in return. We were just kids.

I turned around. You were still asleep, your lips slightly parted. I followed the curve of your chin, settling my eyes on the red marks I had left on your neck and chest, reminiscent of all those times I had done just the same, and you'd tried to cover up by saying the first thing that came to mind: you'd hit a table. I remember laughing at your expense because it was obviously the lamest excuse ever. But your spontaneity was part of the reason I loved you. I gulped. I had to go.

I dragged my feet along the floor of your living room. I could hear the shower still running, so I assumed your best friend was halfway through her morning routine, for her bedroom door was wide open, but she was nowhere to be seen. My Vans had been carefully placed by the front door, a sticky post-it note lying on top of my left one read, "Please leave silently and don't you dare share anything you did last night with the tabloids or I will personally hunt you down. I hope I don't ever have to meet you, whoever you are. -A. (PS: I hope you at least gave her the time of her life)." I grinned at first: I loved your best friend like a sister. But seconds later I couldn't stop the feeling of dread that settled into my stomach. She couldn't find out it had been me who had spent the night with her drunken best friend, for the nth time, when neither of us could afford to. Then again, you couldn't find out it had been me who had marked your body, who had carried you over the edge last night like so many times before. It was still blurry in my mind -I had drunk almost double what you had, I was sure- but I had quite some memories of what had gone down. Your face smiling in ecstasy, whispering my name, biting my hand so as to not cry out. You cuddling into my chest, asking me to sing to you, our song,  the one in Portuguese, like I had always done after making love... Then your smile and that toe-curling shiver when I put my mouth to your ear and did as you asked, even though, thinking about it now in the morning, the lyrics felt strangely ironic. Your smirk as you settled your hand on my thigh, knowing full well what your actions would entail. The brightness of your almond eyes in the darkness of your room as I kissed and caressed every part of your body. The way you had let yourself fall, your body spent, limp onto your narrow bed, taking up all the space, asking me to lie down on my side, close to you, and to sing you to sleep... The shower stopped, and I heard the curtains being drawn back. I shook my head, then regretted it as the pain started again. I had to get out of here, if only I weren't so slow.