Red

I don’t think I’ll ever forget you, Red. There was a time that I wish I could, my head buried in the ruffles of our — sorry, my — bedsheets. The absence is what kills the most. The folds of my very wear holds whispers of things I should have said, things I should have done, perhaps things I should have thought of doing. Thing is, though, I did all I possibly could.

The first day we met. Do you remember that embarrassing encounter? It makes me laugh thinking about it now. Young student lost in a foreign city; and trust my luck to be lost on a day when a parade bustled through the city. The blinding curtains of yellow and red, the massive moving floats and platforms hanging like godly puppets from the sky. There was the music, too. I can still feel its rhythm in my bones as if they were used to beat the drums. All over, there was movement, there was heat and I was alone. I was, to be honest, a little scared. How was I going to get to my apartment in this?

Then you came along.

There was that red dress you wore, I remember. The sun shone white and I felt as if we were on its surface, with the heat of people around me. You swayed and snaked through the crowd and bumped into me. Thinking of who it was that wanted to fight, I turned around with my fist curled tightly. But you were there. Your eyes a lake of green with a dollop of yellow in the middle; the bright yellow daisy above your right ear; your light brown hair tucked sharply behind that same ear. The awkward apologies — oh my gosh, it’s embarrassing to even remember. Then your eyes changed: your brow came forward a bit and you changed stance. Your right leg went behind your left as you extended your hand to me: you asked to dance.

I never normally danced: I was an outsider here. Excuses, but you were persistent. It was awkward two minutes at first but when I broke away from your hypnotic stare it was sunset. The Sun’s surface wasn’t as hot anymore and the sun shone orange, shards of amber displaying on the city’s walls like graffiti.

You spoke a little English so conversation afterwards wasn’t clumsy. I asked after any friends you came with then you said you came alone. Alone. There were parades back home but nobody ever came alone. Here, I wanted to inquire deeper but your eyes were electric: something about it, I’m not sure — but I felt it would be best to let you lead the conversation. We walked to my apartment once I told you where I was to be accommodated. A few months later, as I became accustomed to the veins of the city, I realized you took me round the long way to get to my apartment. It was as we walked home, your shoes off and my shirt undone, we shared our first kiss. It was spectacular and your tongue was soft.

In a fumble into my apartment, we made love.

The next few months were euphoric. I spent much of my time studying for my degree, but you were my escape from the everyday. You took me around the city, to see the museums, to see the galleries, to see a different life. And the more I discovered, the more intoxicated I became by you. In hindsight, perhaps it was my fault. One shouldn’t have that much responsibility forced on them: to use you as a means of escape. Perhaps you deserved better, or perhaps you started to feel pressure to be what I expected of you. To always bring some new way to escape the everyday: perhaps I fell in love with what you did for me, and not who you just are. You always hated boxes.

Then one day, you left. I half expected it — we had sex less, we danced less. We only shared our love for each other’s works, what we did, and not who we were. But it didn’t mean it hurt any less. There was an attachment deeper than I expected, your absence was unusual to understand, you became the reason I developed into who I was: how could I continue to be without you? What hurt me most was that you cleared the apartment. You took your works of art, paintings, your underwear, your perfumes; nothing to remember you by but the delicious memories and a desperation to relive them. As if you never even existed. The next few months were torture, anguish — I had to re-adapt, I had to find my feet once again. I learned, I developed, I grew. I came out with a first.

But I’ve never forgotten you, Red. Perhaps I’ve not even gotten over you. But, wherever you are, whoever you’re with — I hope you left me a space in the corner of your mind to ponder. I hope you allowed me a slot of your time each day as I’ve allowed you mine. I hope you hurt like I still do at times.

I hope you never forget me, Red.