An Angel with a Cigarette II
It is, perhaps, an undisputed fact that the kiss is a universal display of affection, shared throughout the world between friends, family, and most especially lovers. To many, it means everything, but to some it could mean nothing.
October. Leaves were everywhere, and the pavement was orange as they were everywhere. The local avian populations had already begun migrating to places where the winds were warmer. Nowhere is the change of seasons more evident than in the wardrobe of the Londoners. I myself had begun wearing several layers of clothing to fend off the cold.
It’s just a few hours before midnight and I’m walking home, the warmest thing I have with me being the cup of coffee I had just picked up. Just as I passed one of the pubs along the way, the noise of loud laughter catches my attention. A group of people exits the pub and I immediately recognize one of them. Absurdly enough, everything and everyone seemed to blur out and I only saw his face.
“Roomie!” he called at me rather loudly. He was obviously drunk, but still able to walk on his own. One thing I couldn’t help but notice was how red he was. “Mates, my roomie- !” I flash the most polite I smile I could muster at his friends- men and women about our age. Blondes, brunettes and gingers. Roomie was the only one with black hair.
“Pleasure, mate. Better take care of this one. The tequila will be kickin’ in in a few.” The pronouncement of one of them confused me, but I agreed to walk home with him. The walk is silent, and he suddenly puts his arms around me.
“Sorry. Tequila’s kicking in.” I throw him a confused look. “You don’t know? Tequila has some sort of delay before kicking in.” he chuckles.
“You’re pretty red.” I remark “You’re not allergic to alcohol, are you?”
“Well yes, I am!” He laughs rather noisly. Still a few blocks away to get home. Each step we take he seems to be getting heavier and heavier. By the time we get there, he was almost unconscious. Is this how alcohol affects those allergic to it?
I struggle to get him up the stairs. It was no easy task, as he was a few inches taller than me. And did he gain weight? Or had he always been this heavy? He seemed so skinny- it turns out I misjudged based on his appearance.
RM210. I unlocked the door. By this time he seemed like he was already unconscious. I lifted him with all my might and tried to carry him to his bed. But as I was about to lay him down, he wrapped his arms around my neck and I came crashing down on him.
And before I knew it, there I was. On his bed. On top of him. Chest to chest, and lips hovering barely an inch above his own. I could feel, smell, and almost taste his breath. Deliciously sweet, and somehow made fragrant by the alcohol. He was still unconscious- sleeping, more like it. I lifted myself a little as I didn’t want to be disrespectful. The whole experience sent blood rushing to my… southern regions, and they were pressing against somewhere they shouldn’t.
Should I kiss him? Before I can make my answer, he turns to his side. And that’s it, that moment- that magical moment was gone.
The moment left me dumbfounded, however. A kiss meant everything to me. It was sharing your soul with someone. Telling them all about you, giving them your everything, trusting them with your deepest and darkest secrets.
He was already deep asleep. I knew I couldn’t sleep if I tried. So I wrote again.
When I woke the first thing I saw was a pair of thick brows furrowed in concentration. It was my roommate. His nose was buried in a grey notebook that was an all too familiar shade of gray.
“MY DIARY!” I all but jump out of bed to snatch the journal of my most treasured thoughts from his hands. He gives me a hearty chuckle. “You know, your prose is all right.”
I write all my thoughts, reflections, and experiences in the form of short stories. Sometimes, some stories become novels. Names are changed, and experiences distorted. Codes are added as subtle hints. Perhaps I was a Mason in a past life? I don’t know. He wouldn’t figure out- or would he? I think he has, as our shared experiences are few but distinct. I stay silent and keep to myself.
“Anyway, I’m going out to grab a bite. Later.” He shrugged and stood to go. “But… I’m looking forward to knowing what happens to- and-.” He said before disappearing for the corridor.
I stare at the empty doorway where – just walked through minutes ago. I sigh in exasperation at the strange feelings that fill my chest. These feelings for this boy who happens to be quite elusive, deeply confusing, and annoyingly frustrating. This boy who I know nothing about, but manages to haunt my dreams, and makes me want to spend the rest of eternity with him.
I check how much he was able to read- and it seems he’s reached the latest thing I wrote:
“The skies of London show very few stars, covered by the eternally present clouds and the murky smog that has settled over the metropolis. I miss the stars of Hampshire. I fell on top of- today, and I wanted to kiss him.”
