Walk

Written for an unpublished magazine.

We meet at the station, next to the park that is so close to the city center. I am early, as always. We get ourselves some coffee and start to walk. We point out squirrels, plants, butterflies and bumblebees, shapes in clouds and trees. Hours pass and we jump from topic to topic to topic to topic. Of course there are silences, but they are mutual. Trustworthy quiet, perfectly timed and on the beat. It is so beautiful when you know what to talk about. It is even more beautiful when you know when we need to catch a break. Let our thoughts catch up with our hearts and mouths.

The warm spring sun softly heats our skin. Under clouds, we shiver. We arrive at a museum. I pretend to know the artist, I don't know why. I shouldn't need to pretend. And I don't. Was it fawning? My reptilian brain taking over for a second of an unnecessary lie, to prevent shame, to prevent, I can not say what.

We look for little nooks in the museum, we try to find the spots least spotted, the paths least walked. We play hide and seek with the exhibits, cowering next to a painting that touches us both. You tell me about the pieces you like the most. I come up with a plan to steal them. The staff at the gift shop misgenders us both, and we think of gruesome ways to make them regret ever talking to us.

Another coffee. Another route. Another hour. Another topic. We find ourselves in a part of the park neither of us ever saw before. The scent of the blooming trees calls, as do the birds, as does my parents home line. I crumble under pressure of decades and confide in you. The load I get off on our first date is my scars and open, festering wounds. Like a pearl necklace I see the heavy beads of abuse reflecting in your face. You knew. You listen. You don't run. You sit with me in the dark under the bright sky. and when I start crying, you hold me.

We get up. There is a path to abandon, a corner to discover that we had not been aware of. Again, we stop for every other tree, rock, leaf, insect or bird. We greet them as visitors. They welcome us as friends. We stopped talking. Just the lightest touch on my shoulder and I know to look for magic. Just the slightest touch on yours, and you look for the squirrel I want to point out. We develop our own language within hours. At the end of this route, a little house waits next to a decrepit wall, not visible from any of the routes one would normally take. We look at each other and open the door.

A hearth where apples were roasted, potions for maidens were mixed, robins were held as pets. Cobwebs and dust and sounds of pigeons from the roof. This will be our home. We never return. We have made our own world.

Welcome to F-Slur! Apostasy!, a new website I set up to share my writing. There is a really meaningful story behind this name. It will be told in one of the first posts. Until then, please have some patience until this website is set up properly <3.

Tons of love, F