He filled every cell, every vessel and vein in my body...he ran through me, like molten lava, burning and melting. Impossible to forget, impossible to escape. I wanted to escape...but then I wanted to plunge in again. Burn, melt, disintegrate to ash. Drown myself in the agony of him, and let him replete me, and flow through me again – let him push at my skin, until it ruptures.
To begin with, he is a figure, far far away. Distant, and beautiful, with chiselled features, and soft, gentle eyes. I watch him, dazed, and entranced. He moves so gracefully. Every time he speaks, or does anything, I focus in, and can do nothing else. I am meant to be concentrating on my lines, but I can't, and I stumble, and get confused.
I go to my car. I don't realise we are parked side by side.
“Hi,” he says.
I can't talk. I swallow, then say “Hi.”
“You're really great in that character. Have you done this long?”
“What, acting? No. Well, sort of. I have acted before, but, you know, never seriously.”
“Cool – well you should do more. You're awesome.”
I blush. I can't believe he is talking to me. Or giving me a compliment.
“Thanks – you're awesome too,” I blush again. “With the music,” I add. He smiles, and sits cross-legged on the bonnet of his car. His thin ankles and black Converse shoes tucked beneath his legs.
“So what else do you do?” he asks.
“I study literature. And write. For fun. What about you?”
“I study too – music. And I play music in a band, as you can see. We play gigs from time to time. And I write too...I would love to see your stuff. What do you write?”
“You know, just different things. You would like to see it?”
“Definitely. Bring something tomorrow. And I will bring something to show you.”
I am standing in front of him. We talk some more. Then I sit beside him. Sitting on his bonnet, watching the car park clear. We talk for hours. About our writing, about studying, about music, about school, about where we come from. We only live fifteen minutes apart. It's hard to believe I have never seen him before, or heard of his band.
And then he is under my skin. And into my blood.
I don't sleep of course. It is impossible. I get up, and carefully select the best things I think I have ever written. Suddenly it feels like I have never written anything. I despise everything, and want to tear it up, or delete it from my computer. But I restrain. I choose a poem, and a short story I wrote in year twelve, which won a prize.
The next afternoon, I am at rehearsals early. I expect him to be there early too, but he isn't. Clare is there, smoking, sitting on the steps.
“Hey. Saw you yesterday, talking to Myles.” She draws out his name. Her tone is nasal.
“Yep,” I say and wait for her evaluation.
“Nice. Real nice. Man, he is so hot. What's he like? I reckon he's into you.”
“No way, Clare, it's impossible. He's so amazing.”
“Like you're not,” she says.
When he arrives, he looks straight at me, and smiles. We rehearse, and I try harder to focus on my lines and not on him. Clare is looking at me not looking at him. He is looking at me. I don't look at him. I glance at the clock, and will it through until six – until everyone leaves, and we can sit on the bonnet of his car again and talk.
We exchange our writing, timidly. I like his stuff. It's fresh, and clever. He says he likes mine, but wants to take it home so he can read it again, properly.
“So, Friday, we are playing at the Old Bar. Do you want to come?”
“OK,” I say, not sure if this is a date or just a general invitation.
He surges through my veins to my brain, and it nearly explodes, as I try and push him out of my thoughts and try and concentrate on driving, or talking with someone, or watching TV. Anything. Then I give up, and let him take over. Every minute taking me closer to Friday night.
I arrive, and know it is a date. He meets me out the front, and kisses me, near the mouth.
“So glad you came.” He is dressed all in black - black faded jeans, black suede shoes, and a tight black tee-shirt. His hair is tousled, like it has never been brushed. I expect it to be a big crowd, and for him to have heaps of friends there, but there is hardly anyone. Just him, and the band, and a few others. He introduces me to the band. Jim, Tim and Craig. They seem cool. I like their music. It's not what I would usually listen to, but they are good, and he sings, and is beautiful, and it doesn't matter what the band sounds like, really.
He asks me to his place. We lie on his double bed, staring up at the ceiling, like preschool children, holding hands. Then he turns on his side and strokes my face. We don't sleep together. We just talk and talk and talk. Every day, I come over. We have a uni break, so other than rehearsals in the evenings, we don't have anything to do, except lie side by side, talking about the great writers, the great musicians, the meaning of the universe. He is funny too...he draws cartoons of me, and sticks them on his wall. Cartoons of me doing strange things like sitting on balloons, or swinging from a plane. Sometimes we go out for walks, and I can't believe he invites me to come again the next day. When I am with him, I try to think of what I should do next. At night, at home, it seems so obvious - I just need to lean into him, and kiss him, and then it will all just happen naturally. Then the next day comes, and we talk, and lie side by side, or swim together, or walk holding hands, but I can never lean in, and he doesn't lean in either.
Jimmy comes round a few times. Has a beer, and a spliff. I don't have any. The conversation changes. We don't talk about literature or philosophy, but they talk about music, and other people they know and parties and stuff I don't know about. His sister comes round too once. I like her – she looks just like Myles, but is rounder, and shorter, and female. They are bonded together. I can see her watching me sometimes, like she has to ask me something, but can't remember what it is she needed to ask.
Then we are walking on the beach. I go to hold his hand, and he pulls is away. My skin expands with the pressure, then ruptures, and molten lava gushes down my body, down my legs, burning my skin, and into the sand. He pulled away. I look at him for a clue, but he just keeps talking. I try again, and he pulls away again.
“What's wrong?” I ask. Finally, we talk about us.
“Nothing.” His face has changed and he is looking across the ocean, far away.
“Something is. What is it?”
He looks at something on the horizon, like it is very important, and he can't take his eyes away from it, or something will go wrong.
“Myles?”
“It's difficult, Jules. I don't know what to say.” We walk back to the car in silence. We drive back to the house in silence, and he still doesn't know what to say. I am getting into my car, looking at his face searchingly. He just stares at me, vacantly.
“She's coming back next week,” he says at last.
“Who is? Who is coming back?”
“Meredith.”
Oh. Meredith. I thought she was an ex. I didn't understand, but now I was starting to. Meredith.
“I'm really sorry, Jules. I can't hang out any more. I am falling in love with you, and I can't.”
“I don't understand – thought...I didn't realise you and Meredith...you have barely mentioned her before.”
“I know. And I am sorry.”
I wind up the window, and drive away from him. My eyes are leaking, and I am trying to concentrate on the road ahead, through the rain, which pelts on my windscreen, like silver shards. I pull over at the park, and fall against the steering wheel, my body heaving. Nothing has ever felt this bad before. He has taken over, and now left me with nothing. I am drained of everything I ever was before. An empty, disintegrating skin, hanging over the steering wheel in the pouring rain.
