When a cynic and a dreamer fall in love.
Strange, how we find ourselves drawn to the most improbable of people. Or, maybe it’s not so strange to be into what we find different, or bizarre. We choose our friends, when we’re drawn to the things that we have in common; and choose our enemies, based on things we disagree on… But loved ones? We don’t choose those. I didn’t choose her… I didn’t even believe in ‘love’ before I met her. Or, no, I still don’t believe in the famous depiction of whatever ‘love’ is.
She’s just… someone I find interesting. She’s sexually desirable too I guess. And here I am. Trying to understand someone as fairy-like as the fairy-lights illuminating my bedroom’s wall.
She is what you’d call a “starry eyed idiot,” if words were enough to describe a person. She believes in more. Whether it’s constellations that shape our personalities, or ghosts looming in her art studio’s bathroom, she believes in it all. It’s… cute? But strange, and sometimes irritable.
I can never understand why she believes in nonsense such as astrology. If it was any other person, that would have been an instant rejection for me. And yet, she’s still in my bedroom, reading one of Stephen King’s creations as if she was watching it before her eyes. I always shake my head at what she says. Her thoughts weren’t just ‘out of the box,’ they were pretty much shredding the box to pieces. I wonder why I’m still here… With her.
“Aren’t they beautiful?”
“What are?” I paused scrolling through Twitter, and turned to face her watching the sky in perfect wonder. The stars were clear today, as a blackout caused our city to blacken against the lights of the heavens. It surprised me to see the galaxy so clearly all of a sudden, but the surprise was over. She still stared at it like she hadn’t been watching it for twenty minutes straight.
“The stars, you dummy!” She nudged at me, and I smiled sadly.
“They’re mostly dead, you know.” She turned to me with a weird expression on her face. She always does that. It makes me wonder whether I spoke English or some alien language.
“And… What’s beautiful about stars that aren’t there?”
“Oh…” Her face broke in a genuine smile. “Well, why does that matter? The lights still look pretty! Even after they’re dead, they’re still pretty.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “That’s morbid, honey.”
“It’s not!” She giggled. It made me want to giggle as well. “Look, all that matters is that I’m looking at them now. I don’t care if they’re dead, or if they’re just a bunch of flaming balls in space… I just care that, when I look at the sky right here, right now, I just… It makes me feel glad to be alive that I can see things that look like THIS.” She gestures at the sky.
“So, as long as things are aesthetically pleasing, or satisfactory in some way, you’re happy? You don’t care that they’re not real?” She turned to me again, this time leaning over, smiling until her dimples carved her cheeks.
“I’m not too demanding.” She kept silent for a moment, settling her eyes on me. “Even if something lacks, it can still be perfect to me.”
“That defies the concept of perfection.” I frown, confused.
She just kept on smiling. “I guess it does.”
…I Somehow understand what she meant by that now. She may not be the brightest or most educated person I’ve met, but, she holds things that matter more to me than her little shortcomings.
She is kind.
She says the most interesting things.
She is witty.
She knows how to talk to people.
She makes the perfect lasagna.
She says the right things at the right time.
She’s not like me. And still, she likes me.
Honestly, what more could I ask for?
She turned to me, having finished her book. I was still staring at her form, a thing she told me is ‘creepily attractive.’ I moved my arm over her shoulder, quietly enjoying each other’s company as the sun sunk beneath the horizon. We didn’t need to talk. We simply enjoyed each other’s company. In a moment, she’d run off to the kitchen, and make some crazy burgers or a delicious lasagna. She’d turn the radio on without giving the poor neighbours a second thought. She’d tug at my shirt, telling me the food would go cold. She’d push me away if I tried to help her clean the dishes. We’d watch TV, her favourite shows are always quite nerve wreaking. Then we’d lay on the bed, and I’d look at her, and I’d see her smile.
A smile is always on her face.
A smile is always on my face too.