Back in 2015, when I was just sixteen and didn't know what somebody else's lips on mine felt like, or what love was, I met Henry.
Henry is an adorable Australian boy, two years older than me.
I had the pleasure to meet him for a coffee in Nancy, France, the day before he left to continue his trip across Europe.
I am not entirely sure what follows makes justice to the events that took place that afternoon, but I'd love to share what some time with him felt like, at least for me.
I remember fondly that moment, walking around the square, Place Charles III, when I gazed at this smiling lean figure looking at me, exuding confidence and joy to be alive.
We greeted each other in French, and calmly walked towards the coffee shop, Bar Aux Artistes, whilst chatting.
I couldn't take my eyes off him, his cute feather ear-ring shining in the last few rays of sunlight, his honey-coloured curls bouncing on his forehead at each step, or the odd smile - that you could blink and miss - as if he'd catch himself smiling and wouldn't allow the surrounding people to notice.
We arrive at the café, and quickly find a seat.
The place has a somewhat vintage vibe, the music playing softly in the background and the dim lights set an intimate atmosphere.
Most of the seats are old sofas and armchairs in fading green, red and blue colours, as if you were looking at an old painting, only about half of them occupied across the three storeys building.
Sitting on an armchair across from mine, his green eyes shimmer in the low light, as waves of conversation flow between us, intimate and ethereal.
He slowly sips on his hot chocolate and we talk for hours, about phylosphy, the world, our past, our future.
As we take a break, silently admiring each other, he leans towards me, visibly embarrassed, his lips hesitate before asking "Can I hold your hands?".
My heart races - I want to scream with joy - but I just blankly stare at his beautiful face.
When I finally make sense of his question and come to my senses, I utter an almost inaudible "Of course.", and I hold his hands, his fair skin against mine; we share a look full of intimacy and keep talking, whilst slowly caressing each other's nails, fingertips and wrists.
I recall his gaze so distinctly, penetrating, delicate and mysterious.
Me, holding a boy's hands, in public!
People around us smile, look puzzled, others just plainly try to void looking in our direction.
Yet, none of it matters, we're both so deeply entranced by our chat, or the caresses, or lost in the other's eyes to notice the small world surrounding us.
It's been hours since he finished his hot chocolate and we decide to go for a walk at the park, Le parc de la Pépinière.
We walk through Place Stanislas, surrounded by the City Hall, the Opera, the Museum of Fine Arts and a few restaurants - old white buildings forming a majestic square, with fountains showcasing cherubs and the virgin Mary surrounded by blossoming vegetation on each corner - making our way to the park.
The sky is dark and no star is to be seen due to the light pollution, only the sound of a cold breeze blowing through the trees and the few people walking in the park keep us company as we chat.
We take one of the many paths venturing through the park, and stop in the middle of it.
No people around us, as we stand in a pitch dark section of the footpath, shaded by the trees.
Holding each other in a warm embrace, my head buried in his chest, he plays with my hair.
On the tip of my toes, to get to his height, we kiss, our lips speaking a language foreign to me, our tongues intertwining, twisting and dancing to an unknown rhythm.
We stop kissing and shortly look at each other, the heavy feeling of our imminent separation looming over us.
People could easily mistake us for long time lovers, holding our hands as we walk under the cold light of the street lamps.
I hug him one last time, knowing fully well I wouldn't be seeing him for a while, as he enters a street-wear shop, and I start making my way home.
We'd go on to keep in touch, to this day still, thousands of miles separating our bodies, but our minds always as close as they were that fateful afternoon.
Little did my naive self know that that one meeting would have changed me forever.
Feeling understood for a few hours, my outlook on how relationships between people work muted, an ever-growing love and meaning for and of others and myself that I carry in my every action stemming from what was simply a lovely date.
Thinking of him leaves a bittersweet aftertaste, but I always smile.
It feels like picking a rose without paying attention, and being hurt by one of its thorns.
It hurts for a little while, but the rose's beauty remains unadulterated.
Submitted September 16, 2019 at 03:54AM by jenesaisqui https://ift.tt/2LTTzMT
No comments:
Post a Comment