We met when I was 17 years old. Quite old for a first love, I admit, but although I'd dated girls before that she was the first one I can claim I loved. And certainly the first one to love me back.
I had joined a local theatre company as a way to find something constructive to do with my spare time; I was never interested/good at sports of any kind and the Internet hadn't been invented yet. I showed up for our first rehearsal at the community theatre half an hour early (I was worried about being late) and a ballet recital was just finishing their practise.
There she was. Her grace and poise captivated me as she seemed to glide across the stage. It was effortless, and beautiful. I had never seen a creature of such art coming from their soul. Right at that moment, I made it my promise to myself that I would get to know this woman.
Our affair was brief but seemed (in my memory, at least) to last forever. She was all I had ever wanted, and I was in no way worthy of such a gift as her. And while I tried my hardest to please her, I think I somehow knew all along that I was a stopgap, nothing more than a handy resting place on her ascent to her true love. And, if I'm honest, that suited me fine, as just being with her was reward enough.
She used to stroke my face with a gentle power that made me quiver. She would say such mundane things, that drove me mad and made me adore her more at the same time. She used to roll her newly washed socks into balls to avoid getting odd pairs. After getting drunk she would sleep all day, refusing to move even at 3pm. She loved Garfield.
It was a lifetime ago, and I hope she found someone that made her truly happy. But it's those things I miss.
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