Lovely

23. How I wished she wouldn't

It burned. Oh, how it burned. The heat in my stomach wouldn't cease, it only turned into tingles. I clasped my legs together tightly and rolled onto my side. Celia, Celia, Celia. I couldn't get the afternoon I had shared with the girl next door a couple of days earlier out of my mind. And whenever I was alone and I thought about it, the memory of the event and the fantasies of what could of been, something physical started up in my lower stomach. It would travel down to the part of me that I could only dream of Celia touching, and then I would have to think of something else quickly otherwise she would hear my body cry out for her all the way from her own room. For her eyes, for her touch, for her mouth. For every part of her to be every part of me. I found it strange how I hated what the thought of her did to me, emotionally and physically, but at the same time never hoped it would stop. Of course, when I was fighting my fingers from straying and thinking of topics such as puppies and butterflies urgently, I could always go to Kahlo to relieve the pressure. But he was not her, they were different and could not be used by me for each other. I could not kiss Celia whilst Kahlo was in my head, just as I could not make love to Kahlo when I was wishing it were Celia inside me. No matter how much either of them unknowingly made me want them so much that it hurt.

Word travelled over to our house that the neighbours were coming for dinner, and got to me once I had the courage to distract myself with the company of others. My heart leaped up into my throat. What if the kiss changed everything? I wished with every inch of me that it hadn't. Because I wanted more, and because I enjoyed the way our hands brushed when we did the dishes together and her laughter joining everyone else's in the backyard and the simple smiles I would catch that we both knew were always meant for me and only me. If she were to avoid my eyes or leave straight after eating, I would certainly hate myself. I would feel guilty and shameful, but mostly angry with myself. That, I couldn't bare. And so, I prayed that she wouldn't pretend I didn't exist.

Remembering how little faith I had in Celia, I wanted to slap my own hand. How I could imagine Celia being so embarrassed that she wouldn't want to know me was beyond me, she went on as normal. I still heard her laughter in the backyard and caught the smiles she sent my way and she still offered to take on the task of cleaning the dishes with me. The sensible part of me thought that I should be more timid and should treat the situation as I may a piece of my mother's fine china but I didn't. I found this confidence and daring edge that I never thought I had. Perhaps because I had relied on Kahlo to have it so I could simply play along. But Celia was different and this feeling made me want to take charge, to wrap my hand around life's throat.

This was how I found the courage to hold her lower back for a moment as I followed her back outside to collect the last load of dishes from the outside table. And to lean over and kiss her jaw as we washed the dishes together. Something had shifted between us, we could do that now. Just like how she could loosely cling to my pinky finger with her own as we walked to join the others in the backyard. And how she could hold my thigh with ease and casualty, squeezing every so often. How I wished she wouldn't, because the way she did so did more to my body and my mind and my heart than she intended it to. But oh, how much I loved it. The sort of pain that is over quickly, and is replaced by warmth and delicious sensations that install a need for more.

But after her family had left, and mine had retired into the house for the night, and we lazily wandered out into the driveway to bid farewell to each other, she didn't kiss my lips. I begged with my eyes, my body language, my whole being for her to lean in and plant a soft, short if it had to be, kiss on my mouth but she didn't. I see, I thought. Things had shifted, but not that far. Disappointment started to boil in my chest right from the second she turned away from me to walk home. I wondered why she didn't want to kiss me, how holding my hand and shooting me a smile was enough of a goodbye in her eyes. We had kissed, and I thought that opened the doorway to more. Celia refused, ignoring my pleas that we both knew she recognised, and walked off into the night.

Things between us may have changed for the better, but I still found myself in bed that night fighting tears until they became too hot and grew too heavy, eventually letting them roll down my cheeks