“…and my heart beats only for you, she whispered to herself thinking about him, and smelling a bunch of roses in a local flower store. She couldn’t decide between white and yellow. She knew that white is perceived to be fragile and feminine, whereas yellow – inspiring and positive. She couldn’t decide what should she get for her beloved grandmother. There was no reason why she should get a bouquet, she only felt so. And still: white or yellow?
While wandering through a bunch of white lillies she remembered the first bouquet she got from him. It was a humble posy of narcissus, her favorite flowers. As humble as he was, when giving it. The colour was yellow and bright, positive and meaningful. He kissed her on the forehead telling something that she kept in the furthest drawer of her heart. She locked it safely and takes it away each time she’s alone – those words warm her up when she’s alone.
Her thoughts also took her to a warm sunny day when she bought a yellow dress and he couldn’t stop looking at her. “You are my sunshine”, he would keep telling with a smile, when kissing her bubbly cheeks.
Now, as she was not with him – she was staying at her grandmother’s – she found herself thinking about him almost every single minute. Even more than that. She would even dream him touching her skin with his fingertips and she would wake up all wild and goose-bumpy. She missed him badly. She missed his words, his hands, his body… She found herself suffering for a while as she couldn’t touch him. And knowing that she would see him soon wouldn’t help at all. “Roses are red, violets are blue… Oh, let the roses be red, but mine are going to be yellow”, she finally decided and went to the cashier.
She always valued the time they spent together. They would spend hours and hours talking, discussing the important issues they both would be contemplating about, drinking white Chardonnay and dreamily vanishing into each others bodies and souls. Sometimes, they would simply forget they have been talking for such a long time, until they noticed a sunshine outside. They would enjoy being together. Both of them would enjoy being together.
She loved the times he would touch her skin with his fingertips – fingertips only! – and she would get funny-looking goosebumps afterwards. He would usually do that in order to replace her alarm clock. She was afraid of tickling so he found a perfect tool to wake her up when she needed to…
When they were together, nothing else but they existed. When they were together, it was just him and her, and their togetherness. Sometimes, when they were dining outside, he would put some ketchup on her nose and would tenderly kiss it off…
When they were together, they would keep looking into each others eyes looking for more love, for more inspiration. Have you ever heard a saying that people, who are in love, only need air and their love? That was a saying about them. Without a doubt.
Without a doubt, she was an artistic young woman. She loved to paint. She simply adored to express her own thoughts and emotions on an innocent blank white paper, which she amazingly changed into something viable and full of energy. She would somehow get energy from painting and would leave lots of pieces of emotions after her personal and relatively intimate time with watercolor, gouache and oil-based paint. She knew how to put colours together so that it would somehow make sense: looking at her paintings you could feel anger and desire, or childish naivety and joy. She managed to put her emotions on a piece of paper so perfectly that everyone would suddenly understand what is it and what exactly did she mean.
On a hazy Saturday evening, while she was simply looking over her previous paintings, she realized that she has never painted him. Not even gave it a try. But she has always wanted to, yet somehow never dared to. Even with her talent she was unsure whether she could capture the soft slope of his chin, playful dimples and full, passionate lips that she loved to touch. Yet this time something was different – either a full moon or a romantic vanilla candle inspired her – but she was excited. She simply took her notebook and started sketching.
She would take short tea breaks that would help her imagine him in different situations that she adored so much: smiling with his lip corners, looking at her passionately or simply giving her a good night kiss and hugging tightly. She wanted to depict each single facial muscle movement that he would use while smiling at her and tacitly saying something that she would keep in her heart for ever.
When he came back home, she was nearly done with yet another masterpiece that she had already fallen in love with even before she started. She decided to depict his face emphasizing his drowning water-blue eyes. “That’s pretty close!”, he seemed to be surprised. “We should try something a little bit more… erotic”, she was provoking him for a challenge and kissed him passionately.
Even though she has never enjoyed writing, she has always valued good, romantic books and poetry. She would spend hours and hours thinking what the poet had meant with a certain line or the whole paragraph and – only she knows – how long would she be thinking about a certain line after she’s finished reading! She was even capable to quote some lines of her favorite poems. “Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime absent from thy heart…” she would catch herself mumbling Shakespeare’s sonnets from time to time.
Yet most of all, she enjoyed when someone wrote her. Once she got a long and emotional letter from a childhood friend, which she kept reading over and over again, as if she tried to memorize every single word. She could sense her friends emotions, and that is what she liked in hand-written letters most.
Since he, the only one she loved, has had a thought of writing a love letter for her for a long time, he decided to do so once. He has certainly spend an uncountable amount of hours looking for the material to write on, since a blank paper seemed too dull and simple. he spent hours in order to find the right style and suitable words. Not because she was picky, simply because she was so special that he wanted to show it with every single thing, every single move and action he took. He decided to write on a slightly bit aged, a little glossy paper with an ink-jet pen.
He didn’t know how to start. Somehow “My dear” sounded too shallow and “Honey” sounded too sweet. Somehow “My lovely” sounded too straightforward and “Baby” - too cheap…
Yet he decided to write that from now on, she should only expect love letters in her mailbox. And back then, the only phrase he wrote smilingly was “I can’t get enough of you. Ever.”
She would constantly catch herself thinking about him, rather than something that she was supposed to. Just like the other day, for example, she would think about his strong arms and seducing scent when she was in front of her papers, working. Her boss didn’t mind her reckless distraction, or rather he did not care because she was good at what she was doing. In such cases, she would try to focus on the documents she had to finish and deadlines she had to meet, though the only “meet” she wanted to happen soon was to meet him, her arms to meet his, her lips to meet his, and her whole body slowly, romantically, dreamily vanish into his hug.
She came home after her job and undressed slowly. Looking into the big mirror hanging on the wall, she imagined his arms sliding around her shoulders and his lips touching her neck… She noticed the goose-bumps that had suddenly risen on her skin, put a robe on and went to the bathroom.
Even though it had only about 9 hours since she saw him, she missed him badly… and so did her body. Letting her hair down while staring at her face, she couldn’t help thinking about him again. Now she was thinking about him coming back home, with a boyish smile on his face. “Kiss me when you come home…”, she whispered to herself, thinking about him. “He’s home soon, in about 17 minutes…”
Starting with the year of 2004, when she was only fourteen and made her first unsuccessful attempt to bake muffins for her classmate that she had a crush on, she hated Valentines. Back then, muffins turned out to be too moist and sour. He didn’t like it. She felt embarrassed and stroked the fourteen from the month of February in her calendar, as if it hadn’t existed at all.
This year she’s baking muffins for the one that she loves, and this year her kitchen smells like sweet cinnamon (and so does she!) – and she knows that he is definitely going to like it.
The first time she brought muffins to him was when they were still dating. Chocolaty, round and soft – and the sweet muffin lure had even ended with a sweeter kiss. She even remembers the taste. His lips were full and soft, and so tempting. He was slightly blushing and so was she, while she kept repeating “kiss me, kiss me!” in her mind. And it happened. Must be the witchcraft of muffins. Since then he calls her “my muffin.”
To this day she still pretends to hate Valentines, even though she has bought an expensive 10 year old wine – just because he likes it, and just because it reminds them about their romantic holidays in a distant and enchanting Portugal. She even bought him a small present. “Must be the witchcraft of muffins,” she repeated with a smile as she was putting the dress on; the same one she wore when they kissed for the first time.