Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.
~ James A. Baldwin
1.
It has gone past midnight, the curfew relegated to the unconscious area of our minds. We sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the yet to be-opened-flyover, the car behind us. For the first time, I was acquainted with the inner-life of this boy, this teenager on the verge of adulthood. He spoke more than I did. He told me his dreams, his ideals, what he had done in the past. I asked if he had ever confided in his best pals the way he had to me. He said he never did. We boys do not engage in such conversations, said he. I looked at him, this young man considered to be the ideal of manhood. Smart and brawny. Popular. We were both staring down at the motorway, at the zooming cars below us. He brought food and drinks, which he shared with me. We, two, small-town teenagers, exchanging intimacies in the darkness of a yet-to-be-opened public area. Daring of us, and illegal in the eyes of the law. There were more things I wished he had told me that night, but it did not happen, as the spell was broken by the police. I shuddered at the thought, as mother would not be too pleased to be woken, after I had deliberately broken the curfew. However, the magic of that night was gone. A year later, we were almost strangers.
2.
We stood under the dusky sky, looking at the breaking waves, barely perceptible in the dimly lit area. We set up the camera and tripod to catch the full moon, and maybe a few constellations. We had to leave the camera for maximum exposure, and while waiting, we surveyed the darkness around us. We spoke, I do not remember of what. Did we touch? It escaped me. The next morning, we were up early to see the orange globe as it rose from the horizon. We took pictures once again, and the pictures came out beautifully. We also took pictures of the junks and fishing boats that were coming in with the catch of the day. We stood under the wooden pavilion, waiting for breakfast to come in. This time I remembered that we could had held on to each other, and to the camera. And the others arrived to join us for breakfast. The magic was soon lost. Few months after, we were almost strangers, a broken version of the pictures we took together.
3.
Our acquaintance was hardly usual, and under the usual circumstances, might had never arisen. We had many-shared loves, and shared-disgusts. We were alike yet so different from the other. We seldom met, yet our hearts were knitted together, sometimes sundered by unknown forces. We shared many a lonely time apart, and spent some of the most mundane hours together. Our passions were strong yet unnoticeable by others, our love mostly unspoken, then, now and thereafter, even as we engaged in long conversations. In my most conventional moments, I've dreamt of a a life together with love, a beautiful wedding to enshrine it all. Perhaps it might never come, not ever in this lifetime. The magic had begun early, and had had many fleeting moments. The first touch, the first kiss, the first of it all. Maybe the first instance wasn't all that important. The memories were what made it as it was.
Epilogue
Perhaps, the essence that defines love is made all the stronger by the lost of possibilities, of former hopes and the realisation of irrational passions.
Dans nom รข l'amour, mon ami
Happy Valentine's to each and every one of my readers.
