The first time I met her, she was drunk at a party. We were both far too young. She had a cigarette tucked behind her left ear, and we were sitting on the street corner playing with the dirt when she started mumbling poetic rambles about the labor with which her heart had been through. I couldn't understand the slur of her words, but suddenly she was drunk Shakespeare, performing her verses at half past midnight.
And as I turned to face her, she began to cry. So I reached out, dipped my fingertips into the hollows of her cheeks, and struck the drunken tears shed before they could hit her freckles.
I knew I loved her then, only I didn't know what fate the both of us had destined with each other. So there I was, kicking the dirt off the asphalt and throwing rocks to the yard opposite of us, wondering if I should hold her hand and squeeze until the tears stopped seeping. But I knew it wasn't enough, so I did a stupid thing. I let her weep beside me, silently, as I stroked her back in circular motions. I read somewhere that pain could be relieved without medication—how miraculous is that?
Maybe, I thought, if I massage her gently, she'll succumb to my affection and the sobbing will conclude. But the heaving never stopped, and beneath my palm, I felt her shake with a force strong enough to part the ocean. God, I'm an idiot. She's crying and I'm petting her like a dog. Cue the mental slap across the face. Ow.
Back to the whole healing without medication thing: It's called rhythmic breathing. You're supposed to assert all of your attention into one object. Or you can just shut your eyes. Except it won't work unless you focus on the rhythm of your breathing. You're supposed to feel the tension draining.
Now, try not to laugh at this next part. While the lungs inside her chest haul in and out like she's doing some sort of intense physical activity, I tell her to be quiet. She's drunk and crying on the street, and I'm asking her to shut up. Will I ever charm a lady?
"Shhh..." I whisper, and she peers at me between her fingers. God, she's beautiful.
Her lip quivers like it's ready to give in, and then she goes mute.
"Let your shoulders go limp. There's too much tension there. Just breathe," I tell her.
And suddenly, she's looking at me like I'm crazy, squinting her chestnut eyes at me like she's wondering if I'm the lady or the tiger.
The moment is still ours, and I gaze at her while her eyes brim with tears. I wonder when it will pass, her weeping. And while I'm doing this, I'm still not sure if my hands belong in my pockets or if they're meant to hold hers.
"Everything you do in this world is selfish," she says instantaneously, and then she leans in and kisses me.
I can feel the weight on her shoulders drop like she's focusing on this one moment. So I pull her in closer, and this is how I know she is mine and I am hers. Her breathing begins to regulate.
In, one, two.
Out, one, two.
This is what she sounds like—this is rhythmic breathing. I wonder if I've drained all of her tension. I can still taste the berries on her lips.
