Young Writers Society

Locks of Love

It's funny. His hair was long when we first met... long and blond. It fazed me when he turned to smile at me and the musty sunlight that drifted through that filthy window at the end of the room shined off it like it was untainted. I would run my hands through it and feel the softness of it and I'd tug on it to make sure it was real. We got a laugh out of that. Niall's fake hair. Classic.

When we'd shower, I'd lather in shampoo and conditioner and you'd swear that his hair was mine. We were never far apart, me and the hair. When we went to the gym, he'd lock it behind his ear and I'd kiss his earlobe as a token of my undying affection. When we made love, his hair would drape over my face and I'd kiss him in the dark. It drove me crazy that something so simple was so meaningful.

I couldn't wrap my mind about it... like my finger would wrap around his locks. I couldn't wrap my mind around the way I could feel his hair on my face as we slept, or the way it would flutter in the breeze as if something brilliant had possessed it. I loved the way it accentuated his aristocratic jawbone, just as much as I loved slapping his hand away when he went to scratch his head... that was my privilege and mine alone.

I couldn't bring myself to care that he ate all the chocolate, or that he made clicking noises when he was bored, or that sometimes he chewed with his mouth opened. It was all distinctly Niall and Niall was all I wanted. There was something deep and poetic about his eyes, something about the way I would sit in his lap and we'd wrap ourselves up in blankets. The way he could barely scratch up enough money to rent that horrid apartment. The way we heated ourselves with an open oven, but instead found ourselves wrapped up in our own body heat... it turned out our affection was much warmer than fire, the winter melted around us and it was only us. He complained sometimes that he wanted better for us. He wanted a better place, a better life, a better job.

Sometimes, I would marvel at the pain of saying goodbye. The uncomfortable hugs when we knew it might be the last. The hushed breaths and giggles in the broom closet. The painful jabbing of the splintery, wooden shelves.

I asked him if he wanted a better lover.

I found out that better wasn't always better for me. He was my muse and my only love. He was everything to me... but somehow I was nothing to him. Regret was something that I never experienced before then. I never felt true hurt, I never felt alone, I never felt empty. But I had never been so full.

I had my revenge. Marigold locks reside in the drawer: snippets from my past, lessons for my future.

That's so sad.