MIDNIGHT OF 1968

it came as a surprise when he picked the seat right next to you—though it should be natural, really, like how people still ask you for his whereabouts despite the last time you both actually talked being weeks ago. but you’re always together, they would comment. he walked into the room, swarmed by a buzz of hellos and you’d look up just for a brief moment, sometimes. other times your gaze lingered long enough until you’re sure he recognized the stare even between handshakes and smiles.

he was late. that you didn’t bother to question as you could faintly hear his mumbling, excuses more akin to long-distance game of chess. he had to walk the dog (which wasn’t true, you knew martha had a strong distaste to london street at night), didn’t feel like driving so he spent twenty minutes trying to reach neil (also not true, neil might have a telephone attached to his ankles by how quick he picks it up). but you’re alright? oh, ‘course. voice louder this time, airy and reassuring. it grew and grew and flowed ever so closely to one end of your brain—not the logical part, the left side, you remembered, or was it the right? there had been some articles talking about it in the sunday paper. but it was all blurry now. it’s always hard for you to make out those differences. the opposite sides of a coin. you blinked and he was there, right next to you.

hello. ah, for you, this time. you gave him a nod. that was enough, right? thank god you’ve made it, another voice said, a woman’s. yes, yes. it’s dreadfully cold out there. even in april. but you’ve made it, another voice and another one and another. you were walking by a shore of tiding chatters, oceanic lips that were never actually yours, they only rose under your shoes while you tried to hold yourself steady. always, it’s simply him him him. when he finally leaned back your shoulders brushed and you hated how it made you feel.

like loving a storm when you were young. sort of. bad weather was good weather with a hint of anticipation (good weather was, still, a good weather). the only adult in your house frantically moving about, allowing you to sit there and observe the panic in her eyes. blizzard raging outside and she would ask if you’d fancy a second cup of hot chocolate. later in your teenage years it became a thrill to dial mimi’s number before they cut the electricity off, telling her it’s flooding here and there and you won’t make it home through all that water, pretending the line was rustled by swirling winds so you couldn’t properly catch her protesting voice.

everything is easier when we were young, he once told you.

like loving a storm?

yes. or loving things, in general.

it frustrated you at that time, not too long ago, merely a month shy of twenty-seven in a place too foreign to call home. if it had been a year or two earlier you’d take that as a gap in his wall, where you could poke your finger in, tease him for being a try-hard and call him annoying. or even before that. years and years before. you’ve lost count as to when exactly he started being a constant in your life and when he had stopped. why? that, too. maybe that’s why you weren’t keen on agreeing with his claim.

we’re not that old, you know.

(but it does seem like it’s ending soon, isn’t it?)

the storm, you thought. he said it was dreadfully cold out there—one more point to convince you about his flimsy excuse. martha must’ve hated it. his head tilted ever so slightly, eyes suddenly locked into yours. yes, a faint grin in his voice, you know how she is.

you hummed and waited for him to break away (there has been a series of that, lately). he still sat there, shoulder touching yours, a face riddled with false static and shining eyes. you wondered if he got them from the cold; the pinkish hue on his cheeks, imperfect state of his usually-combed hair, small cracks along his lips. before you realized, your hand was reaching out to him again.