Once a man lay next to me in bed and asked me what my dreams were. His eyes were earnest and his mannerisms soft, despite him feeling like Atlas to me – the weight of the world on his shoulders. I told him about the cabin in the woods, the nearby body of water I’d creep into in the height of summer and the depths of winter; the wraparound porch and the stovetop constantly in use; the wood burner blowing cedar-scented wisps out into the cold inky sky; the man stood beside me and the kids underfoot and a German Shepherd named Honey snoozing in front of the fire. He said it all sounded lovely and he had a German Shepherd whose name was not Honey and then everything turned to slow syrup and I pretended not to hear the signs of him pulling away even right there in the warmth of my bed. I don’t tell him that the word that keeps running through my mind is kismet.
I don’t tell him that kissing him doesn’t feel enough. That I want to crawl inside his skin. That I want our bodies to never stop touching. I don’t tell him that I believe nothing good will ever last for me and that I’m taking in every moment as if history will not repeat itself, even though I never stop hoping and never learn my lesson.
We cycle to the pub together. He’s wearing my thrift store jeans and an old surf t-shirt and we sit opposite each other in front of his family and my friends and when we’re alone again he asks what I’m doing next. I tell him I’m going home and that he’s more than welcome to come. He says, yes I think I will and we get home and I eventually fall asleep in his arms for half an hour. It’s saccharine but I don’t mind because waking up feels like being held in honey. He leaves and says “see you soon” even though he suggested Thursday and I wonder which one he really meant.
This morning there’s cardamom in my coffee and honey-poached plums drowning my yoghurt but no man beside me, no dogs named Honey. There has been a kid underfoot, her little mouth whispering pop pop as we walk around our sunrise-hued part of the island. I spend the early evenings sat next to the window watching the water lap the shore, thinking about what to cook for dinner and also how stupid I feel for feeling lonely when I am surrounded by people.
I voice note my friend and express my slightly ridiculous fear that when my parents pass, there will be no one else left in the world to whom I am a priority. When I write this out, it seems selfish and futile but no less true.
But when all is said and done, life is so very sweet.
A recipe for something sweet: slice six ripe plums into quarters and place in a pan with 200ml of water, two heaped tablespoons of honey and a teaspoon of ground cardamom. Let it simmer for 15 minutes, until the liquid is syrupy and almost magenta. Pour onto ice cream, into coffee, over porridge or spoon it straight from the jar in the warm sun, dreaming of a life held in honey.
Beautiful
I felt every word