String Theory

you might want to google 'string theory' before you start reading this. and watch the video on the side c:

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 String Theory

It was a basal cell carcinoma.

Your hand around mine was sweaty. I think I was holding on tighter though. The doctor looked sad, though I knew he probably said that too many times a day to count. He had a moustache like a walrus and he sweat a lot. I knew you would’ve laughed about it with me if he hadn’t just told us you had cancer.

It was a basal cell carcinoma.

The doctor's room was unremarkable, the kind of place you'd expect bad news - his yellow table lamp wasn't working and the lighting was dull. The motivational poster on the wall was hardly inspiring. There was a picture of a waterfall on it, a generic waterfall, because water's supposed to be soothing or some bullshit like that. They all have waterfalls on them.

You looked at me, and I looked at you. Your eyes were sad, and scared.

There was a ring around my finger, on my left hand. It slipped a little as you grasped my hand tighter, and your palms were still sweaty. They always got sweaty when you were nervous.

 They were sweaty the day we met: a snowy January afternoon. I was trying to walk fast, balancing my coffee (I actually don’t remember why I was having coffee at three o clock in the afternoon) in one hand, and a book in another. I was late for class. I bumped into your shoulder, and it hurt my nose. You said sorry. I noticed you had beautiful eyes. You were wearing a beanie the colour of mustard, and there was snow in it.

You handed me my magazine, and your palms were sweaty. I thought it was cute.

The doctor was watching us, watching each other.

 Then I started to cry.

*

“What’s your name?”

“Leila. What’s yours?”

“Jacob.”

“Nice to meet you, Jacob.”

“I’ve never seen you around here before, Leila.”

Your voice was like chocolate, not the sweet kind that came in foil wrappers, the darker kind. The kind that was harder to open.

“This is my first year.”

I was shy. I didn’t know why a boy – a man - like you wanted to talk to a girl like me. Your eyes – your hazel eyes - were fixed on me, and then I felt a little conscious because I didn’t straighten my hair that morning. It got funky when I didn’t straighten it.

  There was still snow in your beanie.

 “What course are you doing?”

 “English, English literature.”

You were in your third year. You told me you were studying quantum physics. I was intimidated. You seemed smart. And you were handsome, in that quirky way most girls overlooked. Your glasses reminded me of Harry Potter, they were cellotaped in the middle. Later I found out that you dropped them a lot.

My mother would have loved you.

 You told me never to have coffee from the college café again.