"Truly,
Madly, Deeply" by Lara R.
Creatore
It starts
softly, growing as a whisper becomes a shout.
While driving, I recognize the mesmerizing chord and think, uh oh, I know
this song. I reach for the knob to silence it, but I am overcome with
sweet remembrance, carried away by memories of first love.
Suddenly, it is
happening again.
10pm.
The day before Thanksgiving. I
have just turned sixteen years old a week earlier.
Somehow, I find myself shifting anxiously in an uncomfortable chair,
sitting across from a boy who is too cute for his own good.
It is our third date, the one where you are caught between wanting
something to happen and dreading that it will.
The room is silent; he is watching my every move: the way my fingers
rustle through papers, my eyes scanning the pages as though I am actually
reading them. He senses my
nervousness.
"How
about some music?" he asks.
I nod.
In a moment,
the room is filled with soft harmony, the music enveloping my fears and carrying
them away to distant places. Neither
of us speak; we let the lyrics do that. I
want to stand with you on a mountain. My
mind drifts to the top of a mountain peak, picturing he and I standing in the
thin air, overlooking an endless stretch of land.
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
The scene changes to an ocean view.
We are walking hand in hand under the moonlit sky, anticipating nothing
and everything all at once. Though
the window of the room is closed, I can feel the breeze. Licking my lips discreetly, I can almost taste the saltwater.
I don't know if any of these scenes will become reality, but for now,
only the possibility matters.
Sensing that my
tensions have been relieved, he asks, "Wanna dance?" I can barely hear his request over the music.
His dark eyes reflect light with each sweet hum of the chorus.
"I don't
dance," I say, content with listening to the music, not allowing myself to
be taken over completely by its power.
"Come
on," he encourages, taking my hand to lead me out of the chair. He pulls me
close, and we find ourselves dancing.
The beat resonates, flowing from the speakers into our bodies, moving
from our feet towards our mouths. "You
just kind of-"
Suddenly, he is
kissing me. It is pure, simple, and
innocent. He pauses for a moment to
look into my eyes as the voice on the CD player announces, I'll be your dream.
I'll be your wish. I'll be
your fantasy. We have
declared our feelings without saying a word.
His hands run through my long hair; he tilts his head at just the right
angle (his experience and my lack of it are apparent).
It is a scene out of a movie, complete with a soundtrack.
"That was
nice," he whispers, hugging me tightly, kissing my neck softly.
"Your hair smells so good."
Then he closes his eyes, ready to kiss me again.
But the moment
is over. The song has ended, and I
am no longer under its seductive spell. It
is time for me to leave, but before I go, he gives me a memento of our night:
the Savage Garden CD that has accompanied our dance. What was once another silly love song has now become a symbol
of "us".
He walks me to
my car. I get inside, drive away,
and then laugh to myself. Nervous
tension. Shock.
Disbelief. I just had my
first kiss. Leaving the radio off
for once, I allow myself to linger in the silence of reality, in the memory of
song.
The voice of the radio DJ ends my trance. It is over now: both the song and the adolescent romance. But with the close of my eyes, I can play it all over again. I smile, sharing a secret with myself.