Proserpina
Sylveons.
an exercise in untangling knots.
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- Thread starter Proserpina
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Proserpina
Sylveons.
You will not understand why Lua loved me. In the off-chance that you do, you will then not understand why I loved her.
Plato said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” You usually don’t remember this, because most people have acquired a thick skin, both to ignore and disguise. But something was amiss in Lua’s thick skin, and she wore a hidden kind of tragedy, one that drew me to her. There was always an unexplained sadness behind her eyes—she told me, once, that I was tragic, but to reply ‘likewise’ to that may have resulted in something less than desirable. No matter—we were tragic as we were passionate.
We were separated and reconciled four times. We never sent out invitations.
We lived in a tiny apartment. It became our sanctuary. White windows and patchwork yellow sheets, a tornado of photographs slapped onto crackling walls, the warm smile of sun always trickling its way against mismatched wood. We dreamt of an artist’s loft complete with multi-million dollar happiness but I think in our hearts we never wanted to go anywhere. I’d make breakfast in the morning, she’d make dessert at night, we’d squeeze into our couch and watch an array of second-hand DVDs. I wanted her scent to sink deep into my skin, I remember the touch of her hair against my lips and the strange strength in her thin arms when she flung them around my neck.
She wore small gems on both ears—one onyx, one diamond. Fingers perfectly shaped, a crooked smile, legs she complained of being too curvy. This woman housed my lust and my art, my inside jokes and dreams I never shared with anyone else.
One day, she vanished.
She never came back.
Plato said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” You usually don’t remember this, because most people have acquired a thick skin, both to ignore and disguise. But something was amiss in Lua’s thick skin, and she wore a hidden kind of tragedy, one that drew me to her. There was always an unexplained sadness behind her eyes—she told me, once, that I was tragic, but to reply ‘likewise’ to that may have resulted in something less than desirable. No matter—we were tragic as we were passionate.
We were separated and reconciled four times. We never sent out invitations.
We lived in a tiny apartment. It became our sanctuary. White windows and patchwork yellow sheets, a tornado of photographs slapped onto crackling walls, the warm smile of sun always trickling its way against mismatched wood. We dreamt of an artist’s loft complete with multi-million dollar happiness but I think in our hearts we never wanted to go anywhere. I’d make breakfast in the morning, she’d make dessert at night, we’d squeeze into our couch and watch an array of second-hand DVDs. I wanted her scent to sink deep into my skin, I remember the touch of her hair against my lips and the strange strength in her thin arms when she flung them around my neck.
She wore small gems on both ears—one onyx, one diamond. Fingers perfectly shaped, a crooked smile, legs she complained of being too curvy. This woman housed my lust and my art, my inside jokes and dreams I never shared with anyone else.
One day, she vanished.
She never came back.
Proserpina
Sylveons.
FEB 15.
She has this fantastic way of making you feel like she doesn’t need you, and never will. Told her I loved her, I wasn’t sure what to expect. She chuckled with half-closed eyes, murmured: This is suicide for someone with an escapist complex. Then she held me tightly.
I woke up to her photographs of porcelain cities, all surrounded by hazy blue storms.
MARCH 3.
Haven’t heard from her in a little over two weeks. I flatter her in my memory, I think.
APRIL 24.
I know I left her. I know I was the one who began to fade. Hell, maybe I want this. But you know what? I can’t fucking wait for the day I stop checking my email and my voicemails.
MAY 1.
…Or the day I stop glancing over my shoulder while I am walking down the street.
MAY 31.
Will you believe me if I told you that I knew it was her, before I could make out her face?
She crawled into bed, it must have been three o’clock, on a night freshly tired with rain. Her breath was warm on my neck.
She said to me, “I can’t stop fighting.”
She has this fantastic way of making you feel like she doesn’t need you, and never will. Told her I loved her, I wasn’t sure what to expect. She chuckled with half-closed eyes, murmured: This is suicide for someone with an escapist complex. Then she held me tightly.
I woke up to her photographs of porcelain cities, all surrounded by hazy blue storms.
MARCH 3.
Haven’t heard from her in a little over two weeks. I flatter her in my memory, I think.
APRIL 24.
I know I left her. I know I was the one who began to fade. Hell, maybe I want this. But you know what? I can’t fucking wait for the day I stop checking my email and my voicemails.
MAY 1.
…Or the day I stop glancing over my shoulder while I am walking down the street.
MAY 31.
Will you believe me if I told you that I knew it was her, before I could make out her face?
She crawled into bed, it must have been three o’clock, on a night freshly tired with rain. Her breath was warm on my neck.
She said to me, “I can’t stop fighting.”
Proserpina
Sylveons.
We were both in the wrong place, at the wrong time, when we met. I was young, desperate for someone to listen, and she was a thousand years old, desperate to remember how. I don’t know—maybe I’m just trying too hard to make sense of it all, but in the simplest terms, we just clicked.
I am now going to use a slightly lame, clichéd analogy of love being an ocean (yeah, yeah). I was ready to swim when Lua first stepped in. By mid-waist, she was still kicking sand. And then one day, she just dived in, completely, wholly. Blew my fucking mind.
I saved up a lot of money to take her to the south of France on our first honeymoon. We lay sprawled out on the sand, laughing at an incident involving two elderly, naked people and a poor dog. After it all, I turned to her and she grinned.
“You are the night,” she said to me.
___
We always wanted children, but for some reason, it never happened. Time, maybe. Work. I was working long hours for the majority of our relationship and I think she was waiting for me to slow down a little. Of course, that did not come to pass. For the better, perhaps.
Did that sound cruel? Allow me to explain myself.
If I ever saw a child who, in all ways resembled Lua as her mother, I would more than likely break down.
I am now going to use a slightly lame, clichéd analogy of love being an ocean (yeah, yeah). I was ready to swim when Lua first stepped in. By mid-waist, she was still kicking sand. And then one day, she just dived in, completely, wholly. Blew my fucking mind.
I saved up a lot of money to take her to the south of France on our first honeymoon. We lay sprawled out on the sand, laughing at an incident involving two elderly, naked people and a poor dog. After it all, I turned to her and she grinned.
“You are the night,” she said to me.
___
We always wanted children, but for some reason, it never happened. Time, maybe. Work. I was working long hours for the majority of our relationship and I think she was waiting for me to slow down a little. Of course, that did not come to pass. For the better, perhaps.
Did that sound cruel? Allow me to explain myself.
If I ever saw a child who, in all ways resembled Lua as her mother, I would more than likely break down.
Proserpina
Sylveons.
“Mrs. Riley, how wonderful to finally meet you! Let me tell you, Cade is absolutely crazy about you.”
A twinkling laugh: “Not as crazy as I am about him, I assure you.”
“Oh Cade, what a wonderful catch.”
“She caught me first, I think.”
“Charming, charming. Help yourself to some hors d’oeuvres.”
“Thank you.”
___
“You’re my everything.”
“But Lua, it can’t just be like that. What’s left for you?”
She spoke into his throat, her words like ribbons through his skin. “It’s okay, Cade. I just love you.”
“What about you? You have to love yourself too.”
Pulled back slightly. “You won’t love me if I don’t love myself?”
Silence. Then: “You won’t love me.”
“Cade—”
“I’ll always love you, Lua. But if you don’t love yourself, I’m afraid you’ll stop loving me.”
___
“Nobody walks away happily, Cade. If they’re happy, they don’t walk away. Do you hear me? If they’re happy, they don’t fucking leave.”
A twinkling laugh: “Not as crazy as I am about him, I assure you.”
“Oh Cade, what a wonderful catch.”
“She caught me first, I think.”
“Charming, charming. Help yourself to some hors d’oeuvres.”
“Thank you.”
___
“You’re my everything.”
“But Lua, it can’t just be like that. What’s left for you?”
She spoke into his throat, her words like ribbons through his skin. “It’s okay, Cade. I just love you.”
“What about you? You have to love yourself too.”
Pulled back slightly. “You won’t love me if I don’t love myself?”
Silence. Then: “You won’t love me.”
“Cade—”
“I’ll always love you, Lua. But if you don’t love yourself, I’m afraid you’ll stop loving me.”
___
“Nobody walks away happily, Cade. If they’re happy, they don’t walk away. Do you hear me? If they’re happy, they don’t fucking leave.”
Proserpina
Sylveons.
I was twenty-two, she was twenty-six when we got married. It was a whirlwind wedding, we’d known each other for only a few months and I knew I didn’t want to look anymore. This was it.
She would sing in the shower.
She would fling open the windows at night.
She would come home with flowers.
Our first separation occurred because she was convinced that I was having an affair. I wasn’t.
A few weeks after she moved out, she began to sneak back into our bed, cracking my pathetic heart with every kiss. “Don’t tell me about her,” she’d whisper desperately. “Don’t tell me about anyone else.”
There is nobody else, I wanted to yell.
We would make love, and she would leave one flower on my dresser before she left. Soon, my dresser was overflowing with them.
When we married for the second time, she would come home with flowers. She never missed a beat.
“That’s what happens when two Scorpios get married,” my friend told me, laughing.
But me, I can’t blame the stars.
She would sing in the shower.
She would fling open the windows at night.
She would come home with flowers.
Our first separation occurred because she was convinced that I was having an affair. I wasn’t.
A few weeks after she moved out, she began to sneak back into our bed, cracking my pathetic heart with every kiss. “Don’t tell me about her,” she’d whisper desperately. “Don’t tell me about anyone else.”
There is nobody else, I wanted to yell.
We would make love, and she would leave one flower on my dresser before she left. Soon, my dresser was overflowing with them.
When we married for the second time, she would come home with flowers. She never missed a beat.
“That’s what happens when two Scorpios get married,” my friend told me, laughing.
But me, I can’t blame the stars.