She sat there, gazing at herself, preparing for a game. An overnight game. She hated, feared anyone calling her old, even though her youth had passed. Let them talk. Now, sitting in front of the mirror, she stared at her face. Counting the loves that had come and gone.
The first love was the last love—or so the saying went. She cursed whoever dared say that to her face. Her first love was dreamy, full of sunshine on the schoolyard, the fragrance of flowers and grass, love poems, and flamboyant trees. The boy followed her around like a younger brother, gazing dreamily, wanting to learn how to love, to have a girlfriend like everyone else. She tagged along with him for three years—grades ten, eleven, twelve. Through those classes, through those days, she watched the boy puff out his chest and grow up. Puberty. His voice cracked and broke, his walk became cocky, hair sprouted everywhere, a scruffy beard emerged. He professed his love to her and demanded to be a grown man. And when he finally grew up, he left her with nothing but dreams—sunshine on the schoolyard, the fragrance of flowers and grass, love poems, flamboyant trees. She didn’t blame him for becoming distant and cold, for drifting away after crossing the threshold from high school to university, leaving it all inscribed in the pages of a school notebook. First love is love that ends.
The faint scent of rosewater filled the air, tightening her pores. Her skin looked less wrinkled, a little firmer, somewhat brighter. She sighed. Second love.
“Love is only beautiful when it’s unfulfilled.” She cursed whoever dared say that in front of her. Working life began—an office worker, clocking in at nine and out at five, day after day, month after month. There was a man, her boss, who would greet her every morning and check on her every evening. Occasionally, he would give her a ride home when she didn’t expect it, after a rainy, gloomy afternoon, or after company parties when others had their rides and she was left alone. The man acted out of bossly courtesy and shared humanity. It was sad. The man spoke of his family—his wife, his kids—all seemingly fine. Unhappy. That’s how he described his family while touching her waist, grazing her chest, pressing lips reeking of alcohol, beer, and cigarettes against hers. Was she awake or dreaming? What was real? Many called her foolish, naive, for not seeing through his intentions. Once, twice, three times. She lost count of how many times he promised to leave his wife and kids, or how many times he planned but never acted. Then one day, she saw him bestowing the same bossly courtesy and shared humanity on a new recruit—rounder, fuller. She didn’t curse him for being a man with burdens to unload, with multiple women, at restaurants and hotels. Wandering the internet, she wrote in her blog: “Unfulfilled love is foolish love.”
She dusted her face with pale powder, concealing all the rawness and wildness. She favored foundation that clung tightly to her skin because, like an artist, she wanted to transform. At that moment, she was no longer the dreamer, lost in illusions of love. She was now in her thirties, her spirit unyielding.
“Love is only beautiful when cherished.” She stayed silent when she heard someone utter those words. One man had once said that to her. Her boyfriend—a face without any outstanding features, sun-damaged skin like a cloudy sky, faintly unclean, faintly bearing the scent of a man well-traveled, with a life on the road because that’s how business was.
Love.
Passionate in the late-night texts and calls, asking why she seemed sad after a dinner party had just ended, why she felt alone on the drive home.
Overflowing with his tightly clasped hands, snug embraces, and perfectly executed kisses. He demanded. She stopped him, offering a warm smile, fearing love would fade.
He stopped.
For a moment, he knelt and proposed. Tears fell from her eyes. Overflowing with his tightly clasped hands, snug embraces, and perfectly executed kisses. He demanded. She stopped him. He said, “Thank you for keeping this for me.” Her tears dried up. She froze in his arms. Drifting. She ended things in silence, alone, without explanation. He tried to salvage a love so cherished. Five, six, seven years passed—long months and nights filled with torment. She often wished to restore a lost innocence, but the image of his puzzled face, unable to understand, held her back. Let it be. He tried to salvage a love so cherished. When asked, she would reply, “First love was never the last.”
She applied mascara, drawing her lashes a deep, mysterious black. A touch of blush, lips painted a rich, dark purple, accentuating the edges. She looked in the mirror. She felt satisfied. She resembled a night butterfly. Seeking company. A companion for the night.
