Two days before she left the city, a girl I half-believed myself in love with sat down on a bench off Rembrandtplein. We had a relationship based on late nights and early mornings; the early light scouring the grey skins from the canals. It was odd seeing her in the afternoon.
It was fairly warm- but she was from the Basque country. She wrapped her hoodie and mine around her tightly and folded her arms. I sat down beside her, keeping my own arms to myself.
She looked at me, suddenly intent. This was nothing unusual. I had become to being friends with someone as intense as a first lover.
"I have a secret to tell you," she said. Again, I was used to her drama, so I said nothing. I was expecting nothing. She turned away from me, drew her hands up to her face, and peeled off her blue eyes.
Underneath them: brown ones.
Three shades lighter than mine.
I remembered her sudden anger when I told her once how beautiful her eyes were. They were blue-green, the colour of a marble I once won (this, I did not tell her.) So this explained a lot. Staring at her then, popping her contacts back in and rising from the bench, I couldn't help feeling a certain betrayal.
At once, I realised it had only been half an illusion of love.
No comments:
Post a Comment