My girl, my girl

My girl was a million love songs.

The way she rubbed her eyes in the early morn.

My girl was the comfort of a childhood pet.

How she stirred her coffee lovingly, ritualistically.

Sip sip.

My girl was a chart-topping song.

Her friends buzzed around her like bees to their queen.

My girl was like the dying art of human kindness.

Rare, beautiful, but cursed by the vultures that bled her out.

~

The birds were chirping as they flew below the candy-flossed clouds. The streets of Notting Hill were quiet, the low murmur a sign of respect to the natural world. The trees were green here. A dazzling, vibrant green, tricking the eye into thinking climate change isn’t so bad after all.

He always came here for his morning walks. He lived a few hundred thousand pounds’ worth of tube stops away, but Holland Park was the only place in London where he could find true tranquility. He strolled over the bridge, sipping his bitter coffee. He didn’t like it much, but after 20 years of drinking the same thing, it seemed silly to change. Besides, it was like a diary. A father figure. A holy spirit. Reliable and unchanging. Made at home, grinding the beans, always diligent this self-styled ‘Barista’.

The lake below him was desolate and sad. A few months ago, someone had stolen all the koi, and it now resembled a barren desert underwater.

‘Isn’t it a tragedy?’

He turned to the voice beside him. Immediately, she was the warmest girl he had ever met.

Being described as warm is often taken as an insult: granny curtains and digestive biscuits. But this girl was warm in the way sunlight melts into skin, hot chocolate swirls in the mouth, and the Mediterranean glides over the body.

‘Look at how miserable the pond looks now.’ Her words were slow and thick with empathy.

‘They are just fish, to be fair.’

She shook her head and frowned. Her eyes shone fiercely in disagreement. ‘Maybe to you, who casually observes the salmon in Aisle 12. But not these fish.’ Her eyes returned to the pond. ‘No, not these fish. These fish are beautiful and full of life. This was their home. Imagine if you were stolen from your home, carved up, and sold as meat to the highest bidder.’

He nodded in agreement, immediately convinced. Imagine if I were stolen from my home, carved up, and sold to the highest bidder. Anything that came out of this girl’s mouth was true. He would believe a million lies if they were her words.

‘I’m a vegetarian, but sometimes I have a bolognese. I just can’t resist a bolognese.’

He smiled understandingly. ‘I’m a carnivore, and sometimes I have a burger. I just can’t resist a burger.’

Her eyes glittered with amusement. ‘Do you want to go on a walk with me?’

The next week, they met at midday at a small coffee shop in Camden, the chatter and footsteps of other people white noise to their ears. He had ordered his usual unsweetened black coffee, and she had ordered a matcha latte with strawberry syrup. They shared a tiramisu, fluffy with cream.

‘How come you only drink black coffee?’ She enquired.

‘It’s the healthiest option. I don’t want to die at 50.’

Her lips twitched with such slight agitation that he didn’t notice. She smiled, pushing her cup towards him. ‘Please. Try a sip. You’ll like it.’

He stared at the drink sceptically, like it was shrouded in lies. Nevertheless, he complied. Letting the drink slink softly down his throat, he raised his eyebrows at her playfully. ‘It tastes like a sweet.’

She chuckled, pulling the mug back to her. ‘I know. That’s the point.’

He didn’t understand why she would drink such lacy, pink-ribboned drinks as her coffee. Coffee was to wake up; coffee was to function. She firmly disputed that. She explained that these coffees added an element of comfort to her day. It’s a ritual she knows she will enjoy, like her father and his cigarettes.

‘And if you don’t have your cinnamon-swirl latte?’

She stared blankly as if the answer was obvious. ‘Well, I think I would have wasted a day. And we don’t have many to afford that, do we?’

On the third date, they were having sex (obviously).

Wild, spontaneous, loving sex that would last for hours. Until she got tired and fell asleep for a while, and would wake up and kiss his lips with a gentle tenderness he had never experienced before.

Of course, the morning sex was always followed by coffee. Sitting across from each other at her small kitchen table, they would read the news from his laptop and mostly scrunch their faces up in disgust. She was intelligent; she seemed to know everything about each article before he even had a chance to skim-read it. Her face would light up in animation whenever she had the opportunity to criticise the Trump Administration and its dehumanising deportation of people from America.

‘He sees everyone as either a slave or an enemy. If you’re white, you work for him. If you’re other, god help you.’

She stood up and put her coffee in the microwave. Sometimes her political rants would last for 10 minutes or more. But her voice was music to his ears, and her words were biblically accurate to the political state of the world - he could listen for years.

He watched her as she turned her back to him and picked up a clear glass bottle from the counter. She poured a few pills that looked like gummy bears into her mouth quickly.

‘You take medication?’

She spun around, her expression fiercely defensive. He had begun to learn that expression meant, Why the fuck would you ask me that?

‘Sorry.’ He murmured into his coffee, now mixed with milk from her steamer.

‘It’s fine. They’re for my period.’ The microwave beeped. For the rest of the morning, he ignored the bottle that was clearly not for women’s health, while they sat on the living room rug and took turns reading Alice in Wonderland aloud.

-

One night, she called him and let him know she couldn’t make it to their date.

‘But… I arranged a set menu and everything. It’s paella - your favourite.’

He heard her sigh down the phone, a sigh of frustration rather than regret. ‘I know, I’m sorry. But can’t we rearrange for next week?’

She interjected before he could protest. ‘I’ll make it up to you. We can go to that awful burger place you love so much.’ Exploiting his momentary hesitation, she added, ‘Aaaand, I’ll watch Fight Club with you again?’

The irritation he felt softened. She knew just the right wires to pull, and he folded. ‘Okay. Next week, then?’

‘Next week. I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

He put the phone down and realised he had never asked why she cancelled.

‘Do you think there’s an afterlife?’ She casually prompted, eyes still fixed on the movie they were watching. He was taken aback by her sudden philosophical enquiry, wondering how Jude Law might inspire such a thought.

He shook his head. ‘Not really. I’m not religious or anything, obviously. It would be nice, though.’

She hummed lowly, running her fingers over the woven blanket. ‘Yes. It would be, wouldn’t it?’

One hazy evening in late July, in cocktail-sipping and sundress-slipping weather, her parents invited them round for a drink.

They lay on a garden sofa, legs intertwined as he ran his fingers through her soft curls. It was 9 o’clock, and they had had too many Aperols by that point to care about their embarrassing affection in front of her family.

‘You two are just so perfect for each other.’ Her mother smiled into her drink, leaning against her husband. She turned to him, grinning with tipsiness. ‘Aren’t they perfect together?’ His future father-in-law nodded, and he saw himself in 20 years with the girl he was going to marry.

He stroked her arm, wanting to be as close to her as possible. The touch of her skin made him warm and electrified, just as he felt when they first met.

‘Truthfully, we were so worried she was running out of time.’ Her mother commented, giving her daughter a sad, pitiful look. He inwardly frowned at the antiquated remark.

‘We don’t need to talk about that, Mum.’ He bitterly reflected over the centuries of patriarchy that had made women feel like their dating lives were run by a clock. If she took ten years or one hundred years to find him, he wouldn’t mind. They had all the time in the world to fall in love over and over again.

‘Sorry, dear. Thoughtless of me.’

Her parents were from a different generation: they didn’t always understand her. He silently mulled over their family dynamic, recognising the love they had for each other despite their trivial disputes.

Suddenly, she sat up frantically and took his glass. ‘Do you want another one? I’ll get you another one, come on.’

After that, the rest of the night passed in a dizzy blur, prompted by one too many glasses of wine.

On her 29th birthday, he trekked to a small park where the flowers were blooming with the coming of spring. Her headstone lay inconspicuously in the back corner, flowers set daintily around it. Her parents had obviously visited. Her name, her birth, her death, and a Sylvia Plath quote were all that was written. ‘I never feel so much myself as when I’m in a hot bath.’

He never understood why she had her will written at the age of 28, but it was precise down to the font on the headstone. The flowers she requested were white lilies, red roses, and yellow tulips. He picked up a decaying rose and stuffed it in his pocket. He struggled to remain standing, feeling like he could sink into her grave and never get back up again, and he would be a happier version of himself.

It wasn’t even really her grave - it was only a visual, hollow marker of her existence. Her parents scattered her ashes in the sea on a spontaneous trip to the Isle of Wight, as they slowly lost their minds from the death of their only child. Although she never did voice it, her choice to be cremated was obvious to him. The corporeal nature of burial did not suit her one bit, and she feared an eternal suffocation rotting below the dirt.

With cremation, she could float forever.

He felt gentle spots of rain falling onto his back, watching motionlessly as they pattered onto the dirt at his feet. It grew heavier and heavier, and slowly, the dirt became wet, thick, and pathetic. His energy gave out, and he let his knees sink deep into the mud.

She sang with laughter as he spun her again, overcome with dizziness. ‘Okay, stop, stop!’ She giggled, coming close to his chest.

The 80s pop music faded into the background as her heavy breathing softened into a gentle sigh. ‘Can we do this every night?’ She whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder as they swayed, losing themselves in his living room.

He rested his head on hers, closed his eyes, and promised, ‘Until we’re old and wrinkled with broken hips and can’t move.’

-