It‘s a Love Story

I’ve only known love from movies. From scenes of deep eye contact. From seductive smiles and Hollywood moments. People standing on rooftops, dark blue sky and falling stars surrounding the scene.

Kisses that mean more than a lifetime. Going to the moon and back. Outrageous flirting, always cute and sweet, then merciless. And all that for people of almost all ages, beginning at sometimes even fifteen.

My parents met in Highschool, started dating after a few months and became each other’s. They know each other for forty years by now, made the biggest party ever and with every time they reminisced on this picture-perfect story, I had to think about myself. How I seem to be unable to come up with a story myself.

And here I am, still chasing after people I see on the street, in supermarkets or on the bus. Especially the bus.

So, either it is fate. Or just the mathematical probability of, when having a high number of go-by crushes, at some point one of them will talk to you.

I just didn’t expect it t be him.

The guy is sitting across from me. He came in the last bus stop, angled for the seat without even looking up. Under the fleece jacket I can make out his bright white oxford shirt, the collar so starched, it beams at me with its beauty. For a minute I feel so underdressed for this oh-so-casual busride, but he doesn’teven look at me. White earphones crinkle around his neck, making me wonder who still uses them nowadays. One of the plugs even made it out of his ear, dangling next to his body. And whatever he’s doing at his phone, it seems to take all of his attention.

So, of course, I never expected him to talk to me. It was kind of late already, this bus being one of the last to actually carrying me home. Home as in to the doorstep, not letting me walk for ten minutes through dark grassland, as the next bus would have done.

It is the last stop when he takes out his one earplug, rolling the whole cable elegantly around his fingers, a move that I almost forgot how to do, and puts his phone in his pocket. And then he stares at me. “You also getting off here?“

Has he noticed my confusion? Good.

“Yes, I live close by, and you?“

“Sure, me too. Right around the corner.“

And there it is, the echo in my brain thinking about what to say next. I have that with all sorts of people. Not just with ones I get to know just now, but also with people like my parents. I just never got how people can be comfortable in silence.

But luckily, the guy goes on before I have to think of a nice sentence.

“How come that you live here. Sorry, but you don’t seem that Norwegian to me.“

He laughs with a small crinkle in his chin, which looks really cute. Suits his boyish features.

“I’m not Norwegian, actually.“

“Guessed it.“ He pull his arm in a mocking winner-gesture. It’s actually really cute, I have to admit.

“So, what gave me away?“ I ask. The other option would be to let him guess where I’m from, but that should be too easy.

“His brown eyes look at me in fake surprise. “Everything?“

“What’s everything?“

“We have to get off.“ He presses the button, just seconds before the door would have closed the whole way.

“Like, the way you speak, I’d say.“

“But you talked English to me, so you must have seen it before already.“

Did I get him there?

“Maybe.“ Is this him getting red or does it only look like that in the dim light as we get off the bus? “I think it was just a feeling.“

“What do you mean, just a feeling. That’s more than necessary, right?“

He considers this for a moment. “I guess so. But it’s no evidence, is it?“

“I would say sometimes a feeling is the best evidence we have.“

“And in which cases do you think that?“

What should tell him? That I trust my feeling when I get that butterflies every time he looks at me? But that does not even make sense for me, since I don’t really trust it myself. I don’t even know that guy. His name, his occupation or literally anything. I should choose a different approach.

“It tells me we will go in the same direction now.“

He smirks. “That’s your gut?“

“Sure. So, let’s go.“

And on we go. Actually in the same direction into the dark. Streetlights are no common thing here, as I noticed the first time I was here.

“What’s your name, pal? We talk about feelings already, but the superficial stuff we skipped.“

“Is it all superficial, though?“ I’d love to see his face as he thinks about the question.

“Maybe that’s what somebody would say who does not want to answer. So, I’ll just start. I’m Kjell. Nice to meet you.“

I take his hand, surprised by how warm it feels. “I’m Olivier.“

“So, you’re french?“

“I’m not.“

“Belgian, then?“

“Neither. My mother was Belgian, though.“

As he doesn’t answer, I give him a “Third chance.“

“Then you must be German. There are many of them here.“

Oh yeah, there are. „Correct. It was easy to guess.“

“Wait.“ He actually stops, slowing down his pacing. “You tell me it was easy after I needed three guesses. Evil man. Give me a price at least.“

“You can get a drink.“

I don’t know what happened to me. Fear clasps around my neck the moment I realise what I have just said. Then the pride takes over. I’ve asked a guy on a drink.

“Sure. I know just the place.“

Luckily the darkness is hiding how I slowly turn red. But in a good way, as excitement crawls over my body.

“We have to just go int he other direction.“ 

It turns out, Kjell is a real gentlemen. As we enter the bar, he holds the door open behind me, takes my jacket and stores it on some sofa in the corner, where piles of jackets found their place already.

And then he gets me a drink. I don’t even know what it is, but it smells strong like gasoline and tastes like some disgusting lemon-thingy. “You like it?“, he asks me over Brithney Spears and his cute little eyes seem so big and bright, I want to pull them so, so close and just become a part of them.

“Oh yes, I like everything.“

His hip starts rocking to the music and suddenly I notice how close he is to me. We’ve just met and now he bought me a drink, took care of me and is coming closer with every beat. Excitement rises in my veins as he asks me “Can you tell more about what your feelings indicate to you? Since you can trust them so good.“

But me and feelings, it’s a long story. So long, I cannot even say Long Story Short. It’s just too messy for that.

I started actually thinking about feelings when I was thirteen. When I started looking at other guys in a way that may have been questionable. I grow up with all the fairytales a German grows up with. I read how Rapunzel found her prince, ready to climb the whole tower for her. I watched how the prince in Cinderella confessed his love for her, my parents telling me how beautiful this story is. And of course I watched Micky and Minnie Mouse, the perfect couple. But I never wanted to be the prince. I wanted to have a prince myself. And that thought was shattering. I turned fifteen and regarded boys my age different than girls. I knew nothing about breasts and never planned to. When guys from my class started going to the gym and their arms became more and more defined under their short sleeves, this is what really interested me. And still I watched Hollywood movies with single mothers falling in love with Santa Claus, pretty girls kissing vampires and heartbreaking confessions that were as straight as my parents, who watched all of that with the most empathy I’ve ever seen people have for characters. And that’s when I knew my love story was not written and will probably never be.

And writing it myself was harder than I could have imagined. Because there were no blueprints for characters. Except for people I knew from nude content on the internet, but they were no possibility for my self-spun stories, since they wouldn’t even look at me. Same as the crushes I accumulated over time. Glances full of neutrality from guys on the train or empty eyes from cute baristas, even though they still gave me a milky heart on my latte.

But maybe the pen is set on the paper now, engraving tinted words onto my life.

“My feeling tells me I’m happy to be here. What does yours say?“

He spins around me. “It tells me there is something I don’t believe you.“

What? I feel my body stopping in the music. “What do you mean?“

“I don‘t believe you that’s all your feeling tells you. Or is it always that superficial?“

Breath comes back in my throat. I expected the worst. “Superficial? Happiness is not superficial.“

“So, you would call it a deep emotion?“

 “An emotion does not have to be negatively connotated to be deep.“

“I would say it moves you more.“

„Then don’t move. The music is way too happy.“

He laughs, barely audible over Madonna. “I’m a philosopher sometimes.“

“What’s sometimes?“

“Like, I study it.“

He studies Philosophy? That’s attractive. Tells me he must be good at reflecting.

“What are you doing?“ he asks and I feel bad for not having commented on his study.

“I’m a writer.“

“You are? As your job?“

“Kind of.“ But how should I explain.

How to tell him that all there is exists in my head? How to speak out loud that writing is all I feel comfortable with. That there are my deepest thoughts ever written down on lined college paper, while I never ever show them to anyone? What is it if writing stays for itself? It cannot be a job if there is no gain than my own, right?

But still, there is nothing else to me if writing is my only source of control. My only solace in a world where I feel like writing done by others is neglecting my being entirely. So, I use the words available to make a story. And in this story, I meet the guy I dreamt of for eternities.

I love winter, always had this connection to Scandinavian countries. To the solace nature can give you, the feeling when pure wind is rattling over your skin, not being the slightest bit of gentle. So, of course, I wanted a Norwegian man. Especially one, whose name translates to mountain.

Now, my mountain to lean on is destroying this bit by bit.

Time to get back on track.

This time, I’m the one who moves closer. I let the air between us brimm with excitement, as my hands find the way to his arms, glide over his soft teddy jacket. He looks down on me, his hands in an awkward position between us, certainly not knowing what to do. And his gaze…

There is something watery in his eyes. Like some melancholy as his view drops. The wrinkle in his nose becomes visible as the light touches his face. And then there are his lips. I can see how soft they must be before I feel it. But then, I can’t stop. My mouth finds his. The energy skyrockets as we connect. He’s eager, taking me in with an intensity that throws me back for second. But then, I go full in. My teeth clasp around his lower lip, consuming him. I can’t stop. There must be more to it. More to him. And I want everything, like a meal where you have to lick the remnants from the finished plate because not having this last slight bit of enjoyment feels impossible to bear.

And then his tongue moves inside me and my body stays behind, while I slowly lose my soul to some force above. Just flow, flow away.

I didn’t even register that we went outside. We are just here, on some terrace, making our way through some bushes. Is that his way home? Every step feels like I’m doing two. I can’t see where we are headed. I just know that I have a pen in my hand. Metaphorically. I want to laugh so badly. Since he’s next to me. Holding my hand, apparently. Is this the way to paradise maybe?

But it turns out it is his house. Or apartment, or whatever. I envy him for living here. Like, permanently. I wish that was my place to live as well. Even for a few months, I would do it. But no, I’m a tourist. And yes, I didn’t tell Kjell. There are a few thing he doesn’t know yet.

“You want one?“ He’s holding a box in his hand, black and round, slowly twisting it open.

“What’s that?“ I take out a small white pouch, the size of my fingertip and kinda chalky in it’s touch. Looks like one of the moisturiser that you find in newly bought bags.

“Snus.“ Oh, yes, I heard about that. „Put it behind your lip. It’s quite nice.“

“It’s a drug?“

“Just nicotine.“

I shove it behind my lip, just like he does it. It feels wird, but not as chunky as I thought.

He turns the key and opens the door with a cheesy “Voila“.

So, this is where he lives. Quite tidy, shoes in a neat line, pictures on the walls, but not enough light to see them. His sofa is free of any stuff lying on there. Yes, he’s perfect. Too perfect. But this is exactly what I want. Maybe a little too much what I want, since I feel an arousement I didn’t know my body was able to produce.

The light is illuminating his silhouette, highlighting his features. His sharp nose, the edgy jaw, his strong stature.

As our bodies collide this time, as his hands are in my hair and my arms are around him, feeling the muscles on his back, this is when notice that there is more to my dizziness than the excitement this guy is giving me. My body detaches from my soul, but this time I can’t enjoy it fully. His tongue finds my lips, makes its way in my mouth as if going through a maze. He tastes so much like apple this time, but still it doesn’t feel like I’m the one noticing this. More like a character I’ve written who does. As if the feeling is not mine, but just imagined, thought through and projected on some fictional mind.

And his body is so much on me. I crave to get more of it, to feel all of it on me. My hand doesn’t even now where to go, what to do. And I feel so unable, so deprived of control. And then his tongue begins to move down, over my chin, over my neck. Wait, I’m not even wearing a shirt anymore? What has my mind done to lose so many recent memories?

It can be seconds, maybe minutes or even hours until I’m on the floor, hunched over and holding my chest. I want to know how many clothes I’m still wearing, as that’s the only track of time I still have left at the moment. But the one wearing clothes is my body, not my mind. And the latter is all I can access.

And as I open my eyes again, I’m in my room. My own apartment. The one I rented for a week. He’s here as well. But he should not. I don’t want him to see that I don’t live here for real. But somehow he got in. He’s sitting on my bed, stroking my hair. “Calm down, everything’s fine.“

Is it? I want to ask, but my mouth is unable to produce any sound.

“Try to sleep.“ He whispers and then I actually close my eyes, as if he flipped a switch. How did he do this? He is not even real.

I truly fucked this up. Kjell was my crush for too long now to lose him like this.

Every Friday evening he’s having game night with some friends from university. They meet at the campus and take the bus home. But since he lives so far away, he has to change busses, alone. Every single Friday. And I was there. Several times. Observing him from behind. Until today. Sometimes, I followed him home, watched him through one of his dusty windows while I became one with the darkness in the forest.

On Saturdays, he’s sometimes having drinks. And one time, he actually made out with somebody. A guy. And so, there was my chance. To finally write a story. Starting with a guy sitting on another place in the bus. Opposite of Kjell’s usual place. But sometimes stories don’t enroll the way you planned them to. And no writer is fully in power. Ever.

And sometimes you end up in your own bed and what should have been a love story turned out as a shameful experience.

Time to wake up from that dream.

As I open my eyes again, Kjell is there and a smile forms on my face, just from itself.

“You were asleep and this is the next stop. So, you better get off.“

The pen is in my hand again.