Strange things are called strange for three very simple reasons. One, they seldom happen. Two, nobody expects them to happen. Three, well, they are strange. So was it particularly strange a circumstance that my face had only been a few inches away from Swayum Shikhawat's? Or was the course of action that followed stranger? In all honesty, the most outlandish thing was just the fact that he was there.
He was really there, blood and bones. For, there isn't much flesh in his body to consider. He was no idea this time, the concept of somebody's existence that both pained and redeemed me every day until then. It was Swayum, all of him, right before my eyes. Taking into account how rarely that happened for many months at length, yes, his being there was in fact the strangest thing of all.
That day, I remember, was cloudy and damp. Synonymously, a lot like me. I had rehearsed a lot of ways I could break something of importance to him. That something is that I am unfathomably and irreversibly in love with him. If that hasn't been obvious so far in this prose, I don't know what else ever could be. But I had to say it, didn't I? And I really did. He smiled, confusedly so. Some recognition toward my feelings dawned upon him per sentence I spoke. And then he understood. I know that because he smiled in a different way now.
I moved closer and I put my arms around his waist. Why? I felt like it and there's very little else I have felt like in years. The weather was still cloudy and damp, a bit windy too. But I was nothing like it as I did what I did. I was brave and very in love. I raised my neck and did not give him time to prepare himself. My lips brushed over his once. I struggled to move away, migrate to Zimbabwe if need be. But I couldn't. I just kissed him again. How many times it was, I cannot tell. My hands moved up to his face and I kissed him one more time. I really don't know how many times as I am not into this sort of stuff. I cringe at the prospect of kissing kids too, which is inarguably very heartless.
My hands were back around his waist now. I remember clutching them together earnestly and desperately at his back, clearly scared, should he leave, should he disappear somehow. Then I kissed him as long as respiratory systems allow people to do something of that sort.
"I am not sorry," sighing, I told him. Then I grudgingly removed my hands from where they were. Subsequently, I felt some weight get lifted off my waist. It was his hands.
"I know," He took my left hand by its index finger as he had once before and then the whole of my hand, which he had never before in that way. "You writhe in pain when you don't see me, die of happiness when you do only to come back to life and feel the pain again." He announced, with finality, to both of us.
"That's what I meant to convey." I said, quickly adding, "And that I know you're not that psyched by the coming-back-from-the-dead thing."
"That's what I meant to convey." He said to me and squeezed my hand which he was still holding.
Taking a good look at him now, I prepared to leave. Smiling broadly, we both distanced from each other and I turned around to go from there. And you know what? There were too many things to count that my heart was feeling in that moment, but none of that was the feeling of being broken.
He joined me on my way out.
"You know, I am not psyched just yet." He told me, emphasizing the last two words, walking alongside.
"And my courage and wits are really hard not to appreciate." I said.
"That's what I meant to convey." He was chuckling now. "But then, writhing in pain is really not my thing." He added thoughtfully.
I patted his shoulder in mock sympathy. In my heart that wasn't broken, I knew I had neither lost a friend nor a potential lover. That was the strangest thing of all. For, I am hopeful now when I never was.
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Epiphany.
Real Estate
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