Every single time I saw you it began again. Like a riddle I’d explained how I find the same things beautiful in women as I do in men: a feral imperfection that makes their faces strangely hungry, the hard white teeth and gorgeous dark hair. Read between the lines, I’d been asking you, always better with wordplay than a straight simile; I am so utterly interested in those who have no interest in me. You with your sweet coyness and charcoal-colored eyes, something out of a storybook where fey strangers lead fools to their dew-laden deaths.
There was character to your face, a sly sense of self-possession that bordered on vulgarity. No one would have ever called you beautiful. You were too aware, too heartbreakingly curious, and beauty is formed from restraint.
“Why are you always like this?” I was brave enough to ask you once, as we stood outside the party with our teeth chattering and our hands pale and blue from cold.
“Like what?” Your face transformed when you were inquisitive, reddened mouth parting to reveal a sharp glint of white teeth. I remember thinking that I wished I could have made you see the world the way I saw you.
“The way you are, I mean.” The words came out in a tumble: awkwardly, rushed. You just looked at me and smiled.
Time passed effortlessly in your presence; moments melted into minutes into hours. When I made you laugh I felt dizzy, intoxicated, and when you reached out to touch my hand, or to straighten my shirt collar, I would draw away to pull you closer. We had our own language, a childish flirtation that never bloomed into romance, and I hoarded it with the selfishness of someone who knows all the best stories end unwritten.
I thought that I could have passed my life away with you. I had dreams of us winding paths somewhere between the coasts, rustic Americana and shaded motel rooms, sugared black coffee and a beat-up car with a broken radio. Cities were too small and the plains too vast; on the canvas of memory I’ve painted you as more like me than you ever truly were. Restless and evasive, uneasy and edged in loss. Even now I see your shadow scything the golden afternoon light, the curve of your silhouette, and I imagine you the way I imagine everyone I’ve ever loved: in a place far enough away to be happy.