When he saw her for the first time, she reminded him of a long since forgotten lullaby, of something soft and smooth and mellow. She was a boat in a tempest, she was flowers in the wind. She was water in the desert. She was a song where the words would mash themselves up, creating new ones, nonsensical ones, but that would make more sense that the real words of any song.
That is when he knew he had to talk to her, he was to confess years later. What for? He did not even know. To say what? His mind went blank. He was unable to craft anything new, anything old, anything at all, really. Language was somehow out of his reach. What can you say to someone that suddenly appears in your life, out of nowhere, giving your heart a rest without even noticing you, let alone noticing it, and will step out of your life the very same way, within a matter of minutes, if not of seconds? To someone that creates an unwanted, unnecessary, unrealistic need? A painful sense of emergency. What would you do? What could you do? Could you do anything to retain this person by your side, and if you could, then what? Happily ever after? Was that even an option for him, for her, for anyone? Surely not.
He would break her without even knowing. She would break him, carefully, carelessly, not on purpose, of course not on purpose, she was not a monster, no, of course not, but she would break him nonetheless, slowly and surely, break him with kindness, she would, he knew she would. She was just the type, he could see it from where he was, safely sitting a few feet away. He would break himself, his heart and mind and soul, for she would make him way too aware of his shortcomings. As if he could not be aware of them even now. Calm down. You are safe. Safe. You are safe from her, his head repeated to his heart, again and again. Another lullaby. How many would there be, if he was to talk to her, when she filled his life with them without even acknowledging his existence? Safe, you are safe. But was he really? How? And for how long?
For the second she would notice him, plunging her soft, deep black eyes into his, he knew she would see everything there was to be seen, everything there would be inside, everything there will be, and it terrified him, and his heart was already getting tight at the thought that he couldn't keep her for long. She had to realise how empty he was, how difficult he would make things, always, that was who he was, she was meant to notice it. Unless she was really stupid. But she wasn't, it was obvious at first sight. His gut feeling could not be wrong on this. So as drawn as he was to her, what was the point, if it was only to break himself?
There are possibilities here, though, the steady voice was saying in his head, in the deep down place he was familiar with, endless possibilities even. And he saw them with his inner mind. They rushed in, like waves, crashing again and again in his memory, jamming themselves up. The sunny days starting in his kitchen, the light flowing around her head, her lips on the cup of Earl Grey tea, while he would be pouring himself a cup of pineapple juice. The grey days watching TV on her coach, her head on his lap, his hands caressing her arms. The look of contempt of her friends. Walking in the city for hours. Blowing raspberries on her soft belly. The sound of her laughter in general. Kisses. Holding hands. Sounds of cries. A room filled with their friends. Especially the ones he would not like. A glimpse of a shoe on the floor. Fighting. Announcing they would be getting married. Her sleeping. Everywhere. Her sleeping. On the bed. On the coach. In the car. On a table. Walking off. Her in a white hospital room, her hair longer, of a darker colour, a baby in her arms. Their daughter, it had to be a daughter, he realised it with a pang. Him walking to meet her in autumn in a park, leaves falling, flowing around her, and him carrying the youngest of their children on his shoulders. The oldest one, blond fluffy hair and looking all serious was walking by his side.
Within a few seconds he had seen them all, and more, images that he didn't make sense of, couldn't make sense of, images that paralysed him.
By the time he could finally catch his breath, he was alone at the bar. She had finished her drink and had left. The images lingered a bit longer, like a dream you just awake from, and reluctantly let go of. He imagined he could still smell her perfume linger in the air. He took a deep breath. So that was what it felt like to be too scared to do anything. For things to be broken from the start. He walked out of the bar and in the cold wind of the street. Timing is crucial. Timing is everything.
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