Chloë and Harry

Chapter 5

GIRL CRUSH – LITTLE BIG TOWN

THIS SONG IS WRITTEN IN C-MAJOR. I DON'T REALLY KNOW WHY I WOULD TELL YOU THAT, BUT I JUST WROTE IT DOWN, AND YOU KNOW THERE ISN'T MUCH SPACE ON THAT SMALL LABEL ON THE CASSETTE TAPE. ANYWAYS, IT'S A WONDERFUL SONG. THE MUSIC VIDEO IS IN BLACK AND WHITE. RETRO. YOU LIKE RETRO, AND I LIKE THIS SONG, AND I LIKE YOU AND MAYBE I FOR SURE HAVE A CRUSH ON YOU.

I WANT TO HAVE YOUR HAIR, IT'S BEAUTIFUL.

I WOULD DROWN MYSELF IN A BOTTLE OF YOUR PERFUME.

I WANT TO TASTE YOUR LIPS BECAUSE THEY TASTE LIKE YOU.

AND I LOVE THAT.

As he drove back to the bar, the sky was still shrouded in clouds, but at least some rays of sunshine managed to creep through. He turned the radio louder and had to stop himself from starting a soliloquy – she drove him insane. It was refreshing how she talked to him without knowing who he was.

His fingertips tingled on the wheel as he turned the car around, back to the place where he had started driving yesterday with her riding shotgun.

He loved her curiosity, the fact that she didn't shy away from talking about her feelings and thoughts, and he adored that she didn't give a fuck about what he thought of her. Or at least, it seemed as if she didn't.

Everyone else he had dated used to be affected in their own weird ways, they tried to please him or made a drama out of the fact that it was him who they dated.

He shook his head, stepped out of the car and walked down the narrow stairs to the entrance that was now closed. The door creaked a bit as he pulled the doorknob. He hoped she would come. He could feel the leather book in his hand, it was cold as always, and the fabric was slowly starting to wear out. It was overused –wherever he went, he would take it with him.

It was a collection of notes and poetry, of lyrics and thoughts that were too stupid to say out loud, but which he wanted to remember for some time to come.

He sat down on a cosy velvet armchair and opened it. His handwriting was uneven, sometimes too large, sometimes too small. It spread over half a page.

He pulled a little pencil out of a pocket in his jeans and turned a page. The paper was yellowish, and a little brown on the edges, as he had once spilled coffee over it in the morning.

He wanted to write about her. He wanted to fill these blank pages with poetry, he could write a novel, hundreds of songs.

He had waited all night and the early hours of the morning to see her again – it felt like an eternity. He had even dreamt of her, which scared him.

I AM INFATUATED WITH YOU

AND I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU DO IT

HOW YOU

SNEAK YOURSELF INTO MY DREAMS

HOW YOU SWIRL AROUND IN MY MEMORIES

HOW I CANNOT FORGET THE WAY YOU ARE

AND HOW MY THOUGHTS ALWAYS FIND THEIR WAY TO YOU

I'M FRUSTRATED BY MY FIXATION

BUT I ENJOY THE CHAOS OF IT

HOW YOU KILL EVERYTHING I THOUGHT WAS TRUE

HOW YOU ARE EFFORTLESSLY YOU

NO WONDER THEY NAME STORMS AFTER GIRLS

BECAUSE YOU FOR SURE ARE ONE

AND WHAT AM I?

He put down the pencil and looked at the words splattered on the page. It felt strange to see his feelings reflected on a piece of paper. It felt surreal and wrong somehow, but at the same time, it shifted the burden away from his heart and to a place where it was secure and less heavy to carry.