You said it first, said it with such besotted conviction. Sure it seemed a tad like a Misha Barton line from The O.C. Yet under that rain-drenched winter sky, you declared you loved me. And I know… I know I didn’t reply even a forced me too.  But it had only been 3 weeks. Despite being the first to fall in love like an Edward Hopper cityscape you were also the first to fall out of love.

Do you remember that night, that beat when the Mint Chicks ‘Welcome to Nowhere’ introduced us to our own private somewhere? Like some Kirsten Dunst requiem for a scene that gig stub still sits in a clustered memory box of mine. And that sensation; that intertwining of your hand with mine when you asked me if I needed a ride home. It still catches me off guard when I’m in a movie from time to time. My fingers shiver for that familiar comfort.

Invisible fireflies would flutter from my lips crevices every time those emerald green eyes of yours searched the corridors of my mind. The texture of your liquorice black locks and sight of your swimmer’s chest at my bedroom door was like lithium to Cobain, it made the world seem almost tranquil. I guess that’s why I always ignited like kernels to popcorn in your company, blind to so many elements of your worldview.

Any vista of the sea at night still seems to trigger that sentimental black and white Polaroid. That one of us on that brisk Raglan night bare beneath the surf and surrounded by nothing but fluid swells and each other’s warmth. It was like one of those Rialto frames that depict love in motion, at its simplest yet rawest. It’s not really surprising that the tenderness of us showcasing us at the edge of the world inspired me to finally say it too.

As bare bottoms glistened at the koru in the moon, you held me in your arms on that lifeguard tower. Naked and covered by a buzz light-year towel listening to that Matt Pond Oasis cover, I finally felt like I had what all my straight friends had showcased in front of me for so many years.                                  

A salt and pepper shaker for group barbeques… and so I did it. I uttered those words, I love you, I fuck’n love you, Lennon.                    

I was bashfully ecstatic and you pecked me on the lips and said to me “You know me and Ginnie have this saying. We’re like the bubbles of a champagne glass, effervescent and always unforgettable”. I expected a sensual embracing to occur in a moment like this. Even raw sex would have been something. Yet all I could muster to speak was what has champagne got to do with the now. And you obliviously replied “Dude! We’re listening to a cover of Champagne Supernova. It’s totes relevant.

Daffodils continued to flourish as queens’ lept towards sunbeds and we wove an ever-flowing daisy chain of memories and experiences.  After Uni I’d rush home to prepare a lavish meal at mine, all candle lit and Wisteria Lane ready. My friends invited us to dinners, opened their palms to you the one who had finally won their trusty sidekick’s heart. We rose in delight at gigs, created our own ecstasy on crowded dance floors. Yet whilst I beamed your presence and significance in my life to all; publically to your world I was nothing more than your partner in crime on the social circuit. Your friend with the electric blue eyes, as you so frequently referred.

I guess cracks in my imagined reflection of us were continually blinding me. But under those sheets and behind closed doors what we had was a powerful enough force to allow me to forever bathe in that perceived euphoria of grandeur. That Gus Van Sant film, Last Days was a definite foreshadowing of who you were and how distant I was from that Ken doll pool party. Given the Ham-Trons lack of interest in the art-house, we sat in that cinema in our own clandestine screening completely alone. Kisses were shared and your fingers danced in the dark, lips lathering my cock. Yet my gaze was entranced by the screen, sensations aroused by the poignancy of each frame more than the caressing of your tongue. And when we exited the theatre you had that devilish adolescent look of rebelliousness exuding from you. I spoke of the films brilliance and you its lack of action. I defended those scenes as asking us to create or imagine our own narrative and you stated quite simply. “Why would you want to watch a film that made you think, Mean Girls all the way for me blue eyes”. I told myself the cracking of you and me Lennon was nothing major.                        
I mean friends of mine had endured abortions, deaths even joint bank accounts in their relationships. To me, the cracks had to be seen as mere differences. I tried to make every kiss from you still seem like I was intoxicated by your potion, but the passion even affection, always fleeted after your ejaculation. And as your visits became more shake, spray and flee your distance and my yearning for affection lead me to that maze of sleaze. I felt repulsed at myself post every soak, but their thrust made me feel that I could ignite some sort of passion in another.

It took you eight attempts. I guess that’s some type of post-modern chivalry on your part, after all, it could have been me finding eight draft break up texts.  And somehow in all your other botched attempts to end things I always managed to use sex as the band-aid to fix your bruising and avoid those words being spoken. Yet they came. I found myself hanging on phone lines all that evening. Crying to friends and churning nothing but aha heart-shake down the line. This kind of visceral stirring was an ache that I had never endured…. And then well after midnight, I ended up at your door. You let me stay but on the sofa in your room. My whimpers frustrated you and you suggested one last play wouldn’t hurt, to dampen my crocodile tears. Kisses were not allowed, you pushed my head immediately to your dick and as my mouth touched flesh the realisation that I was only good for sexual stimulation became all too clear and I walked back out into that fog filled winter air.

I only did one vengeful thing post the end of us. I sent those orchids. With a note that read ‘aha heartbreak cunt’ prominently attached. Yet you still threw that back in my face too, returning them to my department inbox.  I hid my anguish well when Julie our secretary animatedly said: “Someone’s sent you flowers, love is in the air…”.  But that embarrassment was a defining blush. As I walked into the foyer I saw lecturers toasting our new head of our department. I grabbed the closest champagne flute and rose my glass, smiling at my supervisor Ann before uttering the words “You know there’s nothing more refreshing than the depth beneath the bubbles of a glass of champagne”.     

Written by Samuel Elliot Snowden