We were inseparable. There were exceptions to this statement, but I will explain that one in a minute.
But in general, we were inseparable. It was a sugary type to love, like too much toffee sweets in one go or marshmallows dipped in an excess amount of chocolate. It was going well, and like most overdoses on sweet things, the stomach ache would come later. It was a nineteen-year-old mix, comprising of one pretty face, long hair, some skinny jeans and music from some garage band in London that thought cigarettes and bananas would save the world.
In retrospect, I doubt we would have met were it not for that one concert where said garage band was performing. She had dark hair, cut short in that manner that is often associated with teenagers unhappy with life or something irrelevant, and two piercings in her left ear, clearly indicating that some middle-aged mother had thrown a fit when she came home that day.
My kind of girl.
She had been wearing dark boots, a short checkered skirt, and a “Ramones” t-shirt. I had a torn pair of jeans, dirty Converse sneakers and my hair still had the shape of the pillow impressed upon it. We were bound to connect. Somewhere between listening to the pointless lyrics of the garage band, which we all publicly defended as “you don’t understand me anymore, Mom”, we did.
After this it was all a smooth ride, fuelled by teenage hormones. You know the type, holding hands, kissing every six minutes just to see if the tonsils had moved. What can I say, were young, irresponsible and in love – all of things you miss in a relationship once things start getting serious.
Yes, you know the type.
We walked with our hands knotted together, pulses flowing from one skinny elbow to the other, our small suicidal-garage-rock-band-loving selves darkening the mood in this suburban neighbourhood. The dogs in the houses to the left and right clearly did not approve of our relationship, and they let this known at the top of their raspy barks.
Woof, warf, woof.
We walked, ignorant of their scolding – we had endured worse. We were not about to be broken apart by a group of mutts yapping from behind closed gates. We put brave and careless stapes in front of each other, looking into each other’s eyeballs, counting the veins, occasionally locking lips to make sure our genetic codes had not changed.
Five houses down…a dog jumped its fence…
Like I said, we used to be inseparable. It’s been fifteen minutes now, I think I should go back and see if she is okay.
Author’s note: Chivalry is dead. And I killed it.