So tired and have to ‘wake up’ in 4:30hrs but I’ve still got one more 45 mark essay to go through.
Having a paper on Thucydides due in a few hours and realising I know nothing of Thucydides
JUST FINISHED 6 TIMED ESSAYS :D
I do abuse the fact that I go to the same school David Gilmour went to and so feel reassured that if I fail my education I can go on and form a revolutionary rock band.
I’m ignoring my complete lack of musical talent.
- Me: *completely bullshits an essay but doesn't pass it in*
- Teacher: Why didn't you hand in the essay?
- Me: It's a metaphor, see? You write the thing that will make you fail the class, but don't do it the power to do it's failing.
She’d kissed her once, back in university. It was the anniversary of her parents death. Lara had gotten very drunk. Lara rarely drank, let alone to the point of drunkenness. Sam figured she needed it. They’d gone out with some boys. More to the point, Sam went out with some boys and Lara came along. It wasn’t often Lara expressed an interest in anyone. Certainly not the boys Sam was constantly bringing around. In the three years, she’d known her, Lara had never dated anyone. To be fair, Sam didn’t really date either. She had an ever increasing pool of boys she could choose from when she wanted to have some fun. Lara didn’t have that either.
It wasn’t as if Sam didn’t try. She was always trying. Lara just seldom took the bait. The few times she did, she was always back home before morning, slipping into their shared bed. They’d started living together after freshman year. Sam needed more space and Lara was happy to get away from the main campus. Sam’s parents paid for a flat in Oxford and it was assumed that Lara would share it.
Sharing a bed, well that hadn’t really been assumed. That just sort of happened since they tended to fall asleep in each other’s rooms. Or, more precisely, Sam fell asleep in Lara’s room watching TV while Lara studied. She never had the heart to wake her. It became routine for them. On those nights when Sam didn’t come home, Lara slept, but fitfully. On the nights when Lara came home late, Sam kept their usual routine, and was always roused from slumber by the sound of clothes being discarded on the floor and warm arms wrapping around her moments later.
That night though, neither of them had gone home with anyone. Sam spent most of her time making sure Lara was okay and, in the end, called it an early night. On the cab ride back to their flat, Lara dozed on her shoulder. It took effort to get her up the four flights of stairs after they arrived and Sam basically had to undress her and put her in bed. After, when it was dark and she had her hand on Lara’s waist, it happened. Lara slid forward until they were forehead to forehead, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Her eyes found Sam’s in the gloom and they were wet. Sam pressed a kiss to her cheek. Lara turned her head and found her lips.
She tasted of whiskey. Her lips were soft. There was no stubble on her cheeks. She pressed gently, then less so. Sam wasn’t sure what they were doing but she was sure that Lara needed her. Whatever she could give her, she would. Lara didn’t ask for much. A swipe of tongue, a nip of teeth. Her hands gripped the soft material at Sam’s hips. They kissed until they weren’t kissing anymore. Until Lara fell asleep against Sam’s collarbone.
They never talked about that night. Sometimes though, Sam thinks back on it, wonders what it meant. Maybe she even wonders what it could have led to. She won’t ask. If that was all Lara needed, she was fine with that. If Lara ever needed her that way again, she’d be here. Until then, she’d wait and she’d be Sam. She’d be Lara’s best friend.
Where I Wish She Belonged
She belongs to boarding houses and deserts. The sun-kissed skin of her people hidden under tight silken hues of glitter as the heels of her feet slip into tall glass slippers that must be returned before midnight. She belongs to the hiking adventures I play pretend with a keyboard, to the extremes of the earth I dare only enter with maps. She can only be reached through with a campaign of one thousand ships. Through the ambition of a naive explorer commissioned to chart foreign seas and who by accident, runs into riches.
See - this girl - she doesn’t belong to me, even though I wished she did. The concept is outdated, I know. It’s very un-p.c. of me. But her curls wash on my face like rolling waves and the rise of her chest as it hitches when there’s a knock on the door mark the beginning and the end of a war. Where’s this war, you ask? And rightly so. Being with her Rousseau’s chains are unlocked. I’m stripped back of the norms and the rules and the contracts. She does not ask my consent when she does this. Being in her presence is being in Hobbes’ state of nature - a state of constant war. My war is private and hopeless - it’s a futile campaign against timed locks imposed by other people’s security measures. I don’t belong behind her closed doors, even though when I’m there they feel like home.
She belongs to the other side of the bridge. To scientific calculations while I’m busy playing with words. And her words - spoken softly and lyrical, with rises and falls in syllables in a way I’d never heard before - they draw me in, inviting me to belong to her like a sirens’ song beckoning a sailor. I too like the sailor am happy to spend my last few breaths in bubbles that’ll dance as she pops them. I’ll gladly belong to the sea.
Meanwhile, all I can do is stare at my lavish four walls. At the bookshelf that rests beside my bed and where I wish she belonged - next to my issues of Vogue and underneath my copies of Shakespeare. This is where I wish she belonged - next to me as I curse at paper politicians and she complains of mad theories devised by even madder men.
She doesn’t belong to me yet. Nor do I belong to her yet. But maybe, one day, we’ll belong to each other.