Not interested

Part 18

I don't think I was used to relationships. But it appears to be that some things come out so naturally when you start doing them that eventually, it seems like you've known that a long time before. It's like swimming or riding a bicycle. Once or twice you may hesitate if you have it in you but then you try and with every right movement grow fond of the idea of learning. So, could we learn for real?

I think the only bad thing about being a writer was looking at the world through the book prism. It's just my March appeared to be a chapter in somebody's story, and as much as I loved books, there is always that thing about them that nothing good lasts long, driven by the fear to make the plot uninteresting and bore the reader. Perhaps, my story meant to be a complicated one no matter how bad I was craving for things to be simply normal. Perhaps, I didn't know what it's like when things are normal.

We spent a whole month alone. Together. I was afraid to pronounce that sentence aloud but couldn't help coming back to it more and more, my mind misted with the idea of the desired happiness and his white cigarette smoke. I felt him mentally, physically, gently, desperately - in every way he allowed me to, and I was trying to catch the moment of us together and put it in the bottle like a delicate ship model for everyone to see but not to touch. Our time could be taken for an exhibition that March, and I was afraid to ruin the unfamiliar and long-awaiting perfection of it.

With Alex my days became different. I loved when he would pick me up after work. We could go to his studio, his home, or anywhere in that city where we felt like going to pass the time like it didn't exist. With Alex somehow, hours, minutes, and seconds were starting to have no meaning, and the night could go without even coming to change the day.

I loved when he teased me.

I loved when the talks were nothing but a prelude. The prelude to us and everything I could so vividly feel in my chest when I would catch him looking at me without any actual thing to say. I loved when he said he needed to go but was always late because he wanted to stay.

I loved when he called me "darling".

I loved, I loved, I loved...

Oh damn...

I loved so many things about him that somebody would actually say that I loved him. Which obviously could've sounded just a little insane if you try to imagine it for real.

But well, what if?

The monotonous sound of my fingers tapping the keys on the typewriter was mercilessly cutting the air of the room. In the furious, habitually fast action the letters were obediently appearing on the paper only to become words and phrases, forming sentences. The action giving me the sort of satisfaction I'd never felt to anything else before. My manuscript was getting its chapters done, and the end wasn't as far as it seemed at the first sight.

Well, it looked like, after all, I could be a writer, couldn't I?

The window was open to my left and the cool April wind was bringing the scent of the cherry blossom somewhere from the outskirts of the city, reminding me of the beautiful season of the year we belonged to. From all the things in the world, most of all I adored spring. And I would think about it for as much as I've wanted to. But how could that be possible when I wasn't alone in the room?

Alex was sitting on the chair on the other side of the bedroom next to the door, writing on the paper and smoking a cigarette. The naughty lock of hair fell on his forehead lazily as he put the cigarette between his teeth to note something with a pencil and let the white smoke get lost somewhere in the air above his head. Alex's legs in blue-washed jeans were laying on another chair next to him, a black simple shirt tugged in the jeans casually, accompanied but the thoughtful expression on his face and the shadows of the evening on his cheekbones. It was so easy to stop typing, observing him, that I almost didn't notice.