*Magnify*
SPONSORED LINKS
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/627516-The-White-Cliffs-of-Dover
by Shaara
Rated: ASR · Short Story · Romance/Love · #627516
How do you know when the magic is real, and if it will last?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




The White Cliffs of Dover



         The ferry across the Channel is not used as often now that we have the tunnel, but I prefer the trip by boat. The White Cliffs of Dover are a sight that is the harbinger of Britain for me. Without that view, I might as well be in France or Belgium. Dover brings me home.

         The Channel crossing for many is not pleasant. The seas are rough, and the aisles inside the ferry are often filled with vomiting passengers. I could not remain there either and keep my stomach full of breakfast. Only up on the deck, roaming about in the cold, foggy mists with the ocean waves playing a tune for my thoughts, can I fully appreciate the trip.

         The sea air fills me with freedom. My hair frizzes and flies about, but I don't care. I pat it down and corral it with a rubber band, and then stuff it back inside my jacket hood. I'm buttoned up fully, my hands warm inside my pockets. My legs -- clothed in heavy jeans -- although not impervious to the cold, are sheltered somewhat as I stand against the rail. I'm chilly and damp, yet the sea is a wildness in my blood. Some people are addicted to alcohol or drugs -- for me my compulsion is the ocean and the way it makes me feel.

         Such was my mood as I crossed the Channel that day in April, returning to Britain for a holiday with my parents. Thursday is always discounted -- student day. Perhaps we would never have met if one of us had traveled on a different day.

         Juan had a red rose in his lapel. I'll never forget that, or the softness of his voice as he greeted me, “Señorita, you are cold, no?”

         Our conversation sprang out of nowhere. We had only an hour. Sometimes that's enough. Shared words, a parting kiss, a scribbled address and phone number...

         I stayed with my parents a month, and I saw Juan almost every day.

         What sets a man on the pedestal of love? Perhaps it was the way Juan took his rose from the lapel of his jacket and handed it to me, saying, “It is possible that I may love you. Will you give me the opportunity to know you better, Carolina?”

         Was it the touch of his lips on mine, the taste of him, the warmth of his body, or the smell of his cologne? Or was it the magic of a ferry ride in the early morning mists?

         I don't know the answer to that, but something clicked that day, and in the weeks that followed, the magic continued. Every day when Juan appeared at my door, a single red rose was held in his hand, and his lips greeted me in the same way as he had done on the ship. “Señorita, you are cold, no?”

         No, I wasn't cold any longer. I was hot as the breeze across desert dunes. I burned like the sun-scorched beaches of the Riviera. I was in love, and it was springtime. And a most handsome Spaniard named Juan had become the center of my world.

         In a whirl, we toured the city. We jumped off and on the double deckers, rushed through the crowds to see the queen, threw a rose into the Thames, and talked as if we'd always been a couple. We did all the usual tourist things, but they seemed new because we did them together.

         The sun shone day after day. We grew careless one day and left our umbrellas home. Then we laughed when the skies opened, and it poured. Dripping into a taxi, we rushed to Juan’s apartment. There, my Spaniard showed me much more than the red roses in his room. He taught me that love is a rhythm -- when two hearts listen well.

          In the days that followed, there were British teas and hot dogs on the riverbanks. We rode the subway and sang with the strolling gypsies. We drank exotic Turkish coffees while reading news stories to each other, ate Indian curries, and toured museums. But concentration was no longer a strong point for us. Laughter had changed to lust. The giant redwood in the Natural History Museum scarcely drew our eyes from each other. The Egyptian mummies in the London Museum hardly paused our kisses. We saw Miss Saigon in a smallish theatre, and the love scenes made our hunger desperate.

         For twenty-eight days we were drunk on each other. Every word caused stolen kisses. Every laugh turned licentious. It was heaven. But the miracle of us ran out of time. We both had studies to pursue.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




          Juan attends a university in Oxford, and I study in Paris, France. We write to each every day, but letters are difficult. Somedays, I think we will soon drift apart. Words need voices and faces to attach to. They need the touch of fingers and hands, and bodies playing the orchestra of love.

         Yet, I think of Juan every day, and I dream of his red velvet roses, and in the nighttime when I wake, I feel the cold sheets where his body should be lying, and my tears warm his side of the bed.

         I wonder what will happen when I see him in the summer. Will we still feel the same way? Or will the ferry have crossed the Channel too many times and the mists have obscured all the magic?

          I buy a rose each day at the corner stall. The woman knows me well. She jokes with me about my young man, and I tell her that he waits for me across the seas. I never tell her of my doubts. Instead, I close my eyes and breathe in the flower’s scent. With my eyes closed like that, I can hear Juan’s voice, almost as if he were next to me. He is saying the words he always said, “Señorita, you are cold, no?”

         “Yes, Juan,” I whisper so the woman cannot hear me. “Yes, Juan, I am very cold, but soon, I think I'll be warm.”


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
© Copyright 2003 Shaara (shaara at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Log in to Leave Feedback
Username:
Password: <Show>
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/627516-The-White-Cliffs-of-Dover