I wish I could begin this piece with an ‘once there was’, but the dread of not being able to conclude what would happen thereafter makes me stop. So I wish to write out the story of Love and Affairs. Yes, them. At a time when mentalities were stooping low and opportunities were closing in, when men were few and boys fewer in between, Affairs began to crop up and came into being. Challenging Love in every which way possible. When it thundershowered and when it breezed and when there were lazy afternoons and lazier evenings, and Love got busy in the responsible living of life, it carved the way for very sexy Affairs.
In the smell of the sea, I found you. When I lost the ground underneath and tripped at the beer froth like waves around, when the moon played the eclipse game with the clouds, I found you. I gave in. To twelve continuous hours of unbearable passion and thirteen more of here-and-there heat. To plentiful kisses and the lack of clockwork. Me? My name is Love. I am fiercely unchanging and thus, may be boring. Sometimes, I imagine. Like now.
That I have Affairs at hand. Or one. Away from the compatibility of consistency, Affairs keep me happy in an uptight way. I am Love. I do not waver. Except when I am in the mood for frivolity. And have you in my arms. Melting and lilting and lilting and melting. When I touch your lips, slowly and surely and then suddenly with speed. When the night is new and the day is dark. When I have you away from the listing of groceries and the doing of home-works — once in a while, barging into the routine of daily and charming your way out with unmanageable titillating memories. And creating new ones on window racks and kitchen shelves and secret hand holding and finger tracing of chin-bones. Toe-curling excitement and tearful demands. I am Love, I give in. Like now. I imagine.
That when it rains, I am washed all over, like the mountains are. With Affairs.
Dissolving the dust of duty.
I am Love. In love with Affairs.
I wish I could end this piece with an ‘and they lived happily ever after’, but the dread of not being able to believe in happy coincidences makes me stop. So I wrote of a chapter out the story of Love and Affairs. Yes, them.