He was like champagne. Sweet, tart, euphoric, dizzying if you had too much. But humans, we are all too good at indulging ourselves for pleasure, so at my own leisure, I would always have too much of him. His name was smooth, like rolling a butterscotch candy across your tongue. His eyes were so odd, so abnormal, one eye reflecting a different color than it's twin.

I shouldn't have met him. I should have been at home, practicing my ballet routines. I should never have accepted my friends invitation to run around the Upper East Side at two am, to lay outside the Lincoln Center for Performing Arts. But I went, because I wanted to prove to everyone, myself included that I knew how to take a risk.

They begged me to stay out, and that was the night I learned I didn't quite know how to say no, for I chose to dwell on the fear that if I said no, I would be considered weak. I didn't know how long it would take me to become unapologetic.

"Jolene, live for once. Actually allow yourself the pleasure of living, and experiencing something other than tights and a barre and endless turns."

I think back on it now to which friend said it, and it finally settles in that I can't put a name to the mouth that these words came from, because it was said to me so many times. Why allow yourself to indulge in reckless things I thought, when you could pour every bit of yourself into something constructive.

I waited 18 years for that perfect envelope from New York University, to read the line, 'Dear Ms. Jolene Braxton; Congratulations!' That was how I experienced something worth indulging in. Dance was my guilty pleasure. The technique, the form, the dedication, that was my enjoyment.

Even so, I chose to go into the city, and I chose to run around, and by all odds, I met him.

He stepped on that train, and someone blessed this boy with the outstanding ability to be so friendly, and he sat next to me. I gave up on my friends at 2 am, and chose to grab the train on 63rd. He spoke softly, but his quiet voice had volume, it demanded attention. The conversation lit up like a match, it sparked quickly, so I cupped it in my hands. It burned in slow motion, and over time so did we.

We did not end that night, although we began.

I could bore you with the endless back and forth with dialogue, I could pretend that I was one of those girls who remembered every section of conversation we shared, but I don't. I remember the way he crinkled his nose when he smiled, the way the spot between his neck and shoulder smelled like rain.

I sometimes noticed things I shouldn't have though. The way he was too reckless, the way he also held on a little too tight in our hugs, and the way he always disappeared every six weeks. Not just an over night, but for a week, with no explanation.

We burned in slow motion, and we burned hot. People stared, thinking we were too engulfed in each other to notice but we saw. We thought we were untouchable, that nothing could stop us. We talked about our future, about the kids we wanted to have, the life we wanted to live. Everything was perfect.

Nothing could stop us.

AFTER:

It's been two years. I had questions, and now I have answers. He was sick, cancer. He had metastatic brain cancer, and the night I met him, was 2 days after he had found out. The life expectancy of someone with his condition was 6 months. He made it 7 months and 12 days. We burned in slow motion, but eventually, every match burns out.

In every relationship, you learn a lesson. Whether it's a lesson you take to heart, or try to shove under the rug, you receive the gift of a lesson from your lover. He taught me that every second should be held, that it is okay to allow yourself something that burns slow and hot.

Love what you have, have what you love, and indulge in guilty pleasures.