Crimson and Clover
I barely know you, but I think I could love you
I rang his friend’s number. Again.
Still no answer.
My heart racing, my pulse pounding, my legs shaking.
Please pick up. Please pick up. Please pick up.
It’s fascinating how our minds start drifting in moments of stress.
The fridge humming in the kitchen. A dog barking from afar. The thickness of the air. The density of it all.
When his friend finally picked up, I skipped the pleasantries and fired the question:
Is he still breathing?
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There was a time when we were happy. Truly happy.
Up all night watching movies. Playing games. Listening to music. Making music. Obsessing over music.
Confessions on a park bench. Charades on his mattress. Our weekly walks to the record store. The liner notes. His tender kiss.
Life was great. Simple. A quick glance at each other’s eyes was enough.
It all started when I dropped him a message. I took his email address from a Mariah Carey mailing list.
We met in person the next day and started dating. As you do.
We never discussed the swiftness of it all, the sanity of our decision, or what prompted me to message him in the first place. He never asked. I never said.
In many ways, it was a wonderful relationship.
The camaraderie. The belly laughs. The mischief over his piano chords. The dreams, the tears, the growth.
We even cooked together. Showered together. Smoked together. Slept together.
And we almost broke together.
Because the truth is — I never fully knew him.
