Magnetism

For the extremist of overtures; I was the centre of my world. I, being in my twenties and of relatively sound mind, had experienced few of the offerings love wished to give over to me and even less of me to give over to her. In the beauty of her beauty, the ugliness of her beauty, and the untimely melancholic warmth of loves’ comely embrace, I began my journey as a member of the dismissed. I was, as an enthusiast of the Game of Thrones generation, a white walker. Blissfully unabashed by my tendency to show little emotion of my senses. I had a forceful feeling this stemmed from an invasive and uncomfortable youth, which manifested itself throughout my anxiousness and uncertainty, into a plethora of unavailable grey feelings. What therapists called Avoidant Attachment, or some other psychological terminology, taking my strength and homeliness to where I imagined I belonged, along with the other dysfunctional(s). This was around the time I ascribed myself the title, Metal-Man. Yet still, and for some reason beyond question, I felt within my own right when I searched for a relationship that I could describe as "a natural love that arose from wanting a future to be proud of kind of love," "haughty, joyous laughter that could fill a room full kind of laughter," and "companionable hope that might fulfill my disenchanted soul kind of hope." (A lucrative display of my high expectations.)

I saw her, but not for the first time, as I had known her from teenage schooling. Each of us catching glimpses from across classrooms, across hallways. I remember identical works pinned to hallway walls and the sound of rambunctious students bustling their way through two small doors into the cafetorium; it was the innocuous beige colour scheme of our school that carried me from seat-to-seat and day-to-day, through from my salad days and on toward a brief adulthood without her. I remember the first time I met her, as vividly as the scent flowers gave over to the breeze in the early hours of a spring-time afternoon. I saw a pair of full, rich, and sentimental eyes, that I had forgotten about, all those years ago. I melted. Every day, as I walked home from school the long way, walking beside a gentle-flowing water-way that supported spectacular willow trees leaf-in-leaf over the roof-way, towards where I aimed to cross the bridge beyond the brook to get home, her name began seeping like sap into my brain and over my vision, catching me white-faced and off-guard, as I walked with little haste through up to the brook, where water weeds and spring thistles crowded the grass way and stream bed. Hoping her path and mine may cross, and surprised to realize they might when I saw her walking down the lower quarter of the hill to where our paths intersect. I felt humbled in every sense, but I was anxious and playing various idiotic scenarios through my head, questioning what might happen if I let her in. What should I say, if I should say anything at all? Will I make a fool out of myself, again? That was when I realized our trajectories were in fact offset and so I gave over because I was too scared to roll my dice first. In a sense, this is where our story began, even though there was little a story to tell. I, humming like a butterfly over to find what I sought for, found myself returning home from my second university year, to find her waiting.

That summer I returned home to my family, where the house I grew up in had undergone a series of extreme renovations, and my room was not the same as when I left. Regardless, I decorated my box into a two-tone paradise. And that evening, an old friend of mine invited me to a get-together, something out of the usual, and she was going to be there. We arrived typically late to the time we'd chosen because we'd been discussing whether eagerness is ever charming, nonetheless, I walked into the house to see a brown Dane the size of a Shetland with dibble hanging from gum to toe. It was alarming, but I continued walking into the kitchen. There she was, dancing gracefully, showing off her sensational physique, the curvature of her hips immediately hot on my scope. The same dreamy eyed girl I knew from my years as a school trope had grown up, beautifully. Something I failed to work out, even after I arrived at the house, that there were no more guests than me, my friend, her friend, and her. I thought it was a fix. Nevertheless, we sat firing questions, over which only a mind that has never known the truth can conjecture. What have you been up to for the last five or so years? How has life been for you? Or more relevantly: What are you doing throwing a four-guest party in a stranger’s house? I played an enjoyable playlist of my favourite tracks of the summer and we spent the entire evening drinking, dancing, and laughing until it was too late to provide an excuse to leave politely. I knew I had to though because I was leaving in a day or two for my studies. University gave me a transparent perspective over what I felt in her company. I thought to myself as I re-analyzed sparks that were made over a love for lo-fi music, hope for a just moral-value and laughter over our political indifference. I felt defrosted as we began discovering each other for the first time, stealing the hours of the autumn-evening and throwing good riddance to time and fear. Nevertheless, I wanted to roll my dice before they were stolen or thrown for me, but she was a taken woman, and I had no other want than to have her. So, I waited, as she had done for me, and sure enough, I was given another chance to roll my dice, aces!

What this meant, I was unsure, but I knew that there would be us at the end of it all, the woman who defrosted my senses, thawing my icy coldness amid a winter solstice. As we live our days together, love has taught me what love always does: to challenge, reward and appreciate every chance that is given or to give. A complicated life and love gave us the confidence to grow day-by-day, mistake-by-mistake. Our way of sharing, communicating, and expressing the value we drew from one another. Avoiding how I used to understand the paradigm, where lovers became comfortably complacent as to fail to see what was ordinarily sitting in front of them. Overlooking, as easily as it can be, the simplicity of love, laughter, and hope. Like Sunday house work, a fulfilling lunch and a soft snooze to celebrate the hard worn week, garden pride, and family loyalty. We reside now, looking out into the promise of tomorrow, our suburban thirties, and an early adulthood well spent: together.