A Collection of Imagines

Timothée

Créma

The place where I desire to go most. To go to the pizaetta and drink tiny cups of expresso, to the river where the residents swim for hours, or to the back balcony of an archeology professor's house, smoking a cigarette and talking about films in Italian. I wish I could be trilingual like him. Of course, he would be there. We would go to the movies together, swim at the river together, and make fun of the people who keep up with 80s pop culture, all the while talking in fluent French. He would try to teach me how to transcribe Bach and he would desperately fail. We would ride our bikes back and forth from the ocean to see what sculpture that was brought up for his father. There would be so many mind widening conversations with him and his mother during dinner. Malfalda would always be happy to see me whenever I'm at the house. She would always ask if I would like a fresh batch of apricot juice. The drink of the gods. I would make frequent visits to his favorite spot in all the Créma landscape. The place where Monet painted most of his landscapes. I would sit with him in the grass and listen to him talk about a certain someone. I would be his shoulder to cry on. I would be his friend, and potentionally his lover. I would be better than her. I would understand his mind. I would at least try to give him some advice. I would try to calm him with gelato and tiny kisses all across his tear soaked face. He didn't have to love me or have any sort of feelings for me. I just want him to be happy and to stay in Créma for as long as I can. We would give each other our virginities and then explore each other, body and soul. We wouldn't act like a couple because we both know that we aren't. People would still ask however. We would always give them the same answer, "Non, nous ne sommes que des amis," or "No, siamo solo amice." It depends on who we are speaking to. The one thing I can predict that he wouldn't do is ask me about my past and my family. They wouldn't be in this fantasy and I know he would notice. Maybe he would ask where they were and then I would make a snarky remark about how they shouldn't be here. That would be that. And I would love him for it. He would only know the basics about me. Like what's my favorite book and my views on the political status of Italy. He would get to know half of my mind as I dwell into his. The only thing that matters is the present. And what's happening in the moment without worrying about the past crawling back to me and without worrying about the future, and what it entails. I would want time to freeze when I would wake up next to him, naked on his bed in the middle of the day. At that time, we would have just come back from skinny dipping in the river. At first I would be self-conscience about my body being exposed, but then he would start kissing my neck and I would slowly strip. Then, we came back to the house, giddy as ever. The only problem with this fantasy is that it would end too quickly. We would part ways a few weeks after he came back from his trip with his certain someone. He would come to me a mess of a boy. When we finally had to separate, I became the mess. He would tell me, "Hé, ne pleure pas. Tu reviendriez bientôt. Tu m'auras toujours." And at that, I would cry harder. I would cradle my head into his chest as he wraps his arms around me. He wouldn't admit it, but he would sob after I left. I would say back to him, "Tu m'as aussi." The ride to the airport would forever be craved into my memory. I would still be crying hurricanes. And the cab driver would continuously look at the rear view mirror, to check up on me. Or to grovel in my pain. I would remember how he would tell me he would be in New York in December. He would have told me, "Je te trouverai." And once the days clock by, I anticipated for the day he would tell me all the times he tried to call me and how he mercilessly cried after. I know him all to well for him to say that the second I asked, "Comment vas-tu?" He would forever be bound to me. As I to him. A Jane Austen quote would run through my mind: Whatever our souls are made of; his and mine are the same. I could never escape him. And him, the same. He would always be my protector, my lover, my friend. And I would forever be his rock, his shoulder, his asylum. I cannot wait for the day to finally meet him. Wherever he may be. Who knows, maybe he is stuck in a tree somewhere.

AN: this was a journal entry from a while ago, thought I should share it.