The night they fell in love.
|The first time they made love was incredible. They’d slept together many a time in the months they’d been dating, but that was the night that the two fell in love. Every kiss was tender, every touch was gentle. They moved together in a way that only lovers could, and they felt free, passionate, alive.
They woke in the morning refreshed and happy. He made coffee, she made toast. They ate together, and then went their separate ways to their respective jobs. He said he’d call, she said okay. They spent their days smiling, the sky looked bluer and the grass looked greener. Every detail in the world seemed brighter and more alive.
He called. Six-forty-two-pm. She answered, and they chatted about the weather, their days, arranged to meet in two days time. In the days between dates, he bought a shirt, she bought shoes. He changed four times, she only three. They both were excited, thinking about the evening ahead and what was to come. They felt like a child on Christmas morning, they’d never felt this alive.
He got to the restaurant early, sat at the bar waiting for her to show. He wore the new shirt, and her favourite cologne. He’d arranged everything with the waiters, everything was set up perfectly. Now all there was to do was wait. He trembled slightly as the door opened, telling himself it was the draught and not his nerves. He stood eagerly, bright eyed and smiling, ready to welcome his new love. His smile dropped when it was not her that entered, and returned to his seat at the bar, the butterflies in his stomach reminding him that this was his moment. His every sense was alive.
She took her time getting ready, carefully applying her make-up, twisting her hair into the way he liked it best. She slipped into her favourite red dress, the one in which she felt at her sexiest. On went the new shoes, also red. Blood red lipstick was painted onto her lips. She replayed the message he’d left a dozen times, didn’t want to be late, but didn’t want to be early. She timed the taxi perfectly to get her to the restaurant just on time. Slipping into the back seat and giving the address, she felt a little light-headed thinking of what was to come. She couldn’t help but wonder what the night would bring, and in her head, she’d never felt this wonderful, this alive.
As time ticked on, and the minutes became an hour, and she still wasn’t there, he was devastated. Every time the door opened he was eagerly stood up in anticipation, but as it turned to thirty minutes he just lifted his head to check, all excitement gone, all butterflies flown. As it became closer to an hour he barely looked at all, his dejection setting in and his departure imminent. She wasn’t coming, she didn’t feel it, he was stupid and wrong and shouldn’t have come in the first place. He collected it from the waiter and left. Getting home, he called her apartment. Machine. He left an angry message, telling her to never call again, and went to bed. His senses were deadened, everything seemed to be grey. Nothing more felt alive.
The phone call came in the morning, around six-forty-two-am. Caller ID showed it to be her, he answered anyway. Hello, did you call this number last night? He’d never been more upset, the voice was male. I need to speak with you, meet me at seven in the cafe on the corner. What was he to do? Clearly she was either screwing around behind this guy’s back or she’d simply moved on. Either way, he was at the cafe at six-fifty-eight-am. And so was he. He looked distraught, he looked alive.
He was shown a photo of her by this strange man. She was sleeping in it, wearing a red dress. He couldn’t help noticing her hair the way he loved it, and the red lipstick staining her lips. He was so entranced by her beauty in the photograph that he failed to notice that red was not only staining her lips. It pooled around her, in a bizarre representation of a Rorschach test. The realization hit him in a tidal wave of emotion, first shock, then dismay, then terrible sadness. The bullet had entered in the exact centre of her forehead, and ricocheted around in her brain, destroying her beautiful soul. His girl, his incredible girl, lay dead in the street somewhere, murdered by a man he could only assume had no heart, a man who had never felt alive.
The first time they made love was incredible. The last time they made love was incredible. He placed the ring on her grave, and pushed it into the fresh earth. She lay beneath, her life shattered, her potential destroyed, dead.