A candid tale of 20-something humanness and extended note to self.

Saturday, 17 June 2017

One night in Bali


They say you don't always know when the great moments of your life are happening. I did, then. I was consumed by it, if I'm honest: giddiness and happiness and hope; sheer fucking gratitude. It's a special thing to feel thankful as something is happening, I think: to experience a moment that truly demands to be felt.

It was his idea. We were in the pool as it rained and rained and rained. Warm, uncompromising, tropical rain, coming down in sheets and dancing with wild enthusiasm upon the surface of the water. I've never much liked being in too deep so my arms were high around his shoulders, folded a little too tightly round the back of his neck. Our bodies were pressed up against each other. The anchor point.

We'd spent the evening drinking whisky and dancing unashamedly: limbs flying in all directions to the kind of cheesy love songs that are rarely played before the second drink. We'd laughed as we'd sung from the bottom of our lungs and moved without grace or purpose around the room. Every now and again we caught each other's eyes. They were smiling too. It was just us, that night, in the world: just us, tucked away in a beautiful, quiet corner of Ubud, Bali. I remember looking around and taking it all in and thinking, 'girls like me don't go to Bali with guys like him.' 

Except they do.

The whisky, the dancing, the heat, the magic of it all: it sedated us eventually. Aside from the rain atop the water, everything was quiet. Still. 

I looked at his face closely, not just because the distance between us forced it, but because if the circumstances and the struggle and the muddling through have taught me one thing, it's that his is the face I like looking at the most. I want to know every line and freckle and expression, and to have brushed my lips against every part of its skin. It's the face that I will feed my last mouthful of bacon to on a Sunday morning, and the face that will contort to make me laugh when I'm sad, and the face that I will search for in a crowd, always. I hope, too, in years to come, that it's the face I see peering up at me when I look at my son.

His eyes were blue and kind and sincere, and beads of water clung to his beard. I could tell he was feeling it too: the hint of a wide smile never leaving the corners of lips. I just remember thinking how this was happiness: the kind of surreal, raw, what-the-fuck-is-life kind of happiness that doesn't come around too often, and how grateful I was for it. For him.

For everything, really.
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