@Ozzyy 24 February 2022 more from that month

Love They sit in a french cafe, outdoors. The warm air‘s perfumed by lilacs and peonies. Passerby tip their hats or wave meek, reverent hands at the girl. In the distance, the Eiffel tower yawns up, stirs the occasional cloud. “You haven’t touched your cappuccino,” she says. The boy looks down. ”Oh.” He swirls the drink with his spoon until its an unsettled galaxy. Tips in sugar, stardust. She hasn’t touched her drink either. She hates coffee but this seemed a good place for a first date. Mature. Refined. All those boring adult terms. But she regrets it now. Tea on Everest or the moon, that might have gotten something from the boy. A smile. A raised eyebrow. She wants very badly to say, I love you. But she squeezes her thumb in the fingers of her other hand. Feels awkward. Gods shouldn’t feel awkward, should they? ”Do you think you can love someone you don’t really know?” she asks. “Like, when celebrities meet and then marry in that whirlwind type of love.” He shrugs. “Whirlwinds die down pretty quickly.“ Better than a long breeze she thinks. She thinks her love is a whirlwind that will last forever. A tornado that she feels in her chest and belly tearing her apart as it spins. “I could make you love me,” she says. “I could make your eyes meet mine. Make your heart beat as fast as a kitten’s whenever you see me.” "What even is love?” he asks. He’s something of a philosopher and it’s one reason she likes him so much. In truth, she doesn’t know much about him beyond surface level details. Beyond the mask he wears at schools, shows to her, to classmates, to friends. But that’s what we fall in love with, she thinks. Everyone wears a mask but it’s bullshit to say the real ’you’ is hidden beneath it. If everyone sees the mask, if you wear it every time you talk to someone, then you are the mask. More often than not, that is you. ”So? What do you think it is?” he asks. She doesn’t know what love is. But she tries to conjure its meaning on the spot, says, “Love is a windy balloon ride. And there are all these storms and spikes and all kinds of stuff to avoid. Those things are reality. Love lets you ride above reality, and you can stay there floating if you’re very, very careful. If you’re a great pilot.” She grimaces, wonderers if they’re even pilots in balloons. He sips his coffee finally. Cautious at first, then drinks more. It’s nicer than he expected. “Why don’t you just make me love you then?” he asks. ‘Why try to seduce me in a french cafe? Why not click your heels together and get this over with?” Her face burns at this. At the suggestion of seduction. Her top is sleeveless. Her hair curled. Skin blemish free with a wave of her hand. Wasn’t even a wave of her hand in truth, just a thought. Everything now changes with a thought, if she wants it to. She is a pathetic God who can’t even think up love properly. ”Because it’s not the same,” she says. “It’s not the same as you wanting to be with me. Wanting to look at me. Maybe if I rescued your parents from certain death… I could arrange that, you know? Then you’d be grateful and like me and I think that would be closer. But still…” She tries her coffee finally. Cold. Bitter as hell. It’s like brown sulphur. Her face scrunches up. That’s how she’s supposed to react to coffee, isn’t it? She closes her eyes, thinks, opens them. Now they are sitting on a grassy hill late at night, the stars above them like the burning ends of black-wax candles. “That’s better,” she says. The stars shift as they stare up, merge into clear constellations, into archers and crabs and into a galaxy-spanning heart. The archer launches an arrow at the heart and it wedges in, the end shivering then steadying. It was meant to look romantic but she thinks now it looks brutal. More like death. A threat. “Why do you like her?” she asks. ”Cause.” Cause. The only reason she can think up. She can hear her Mom calling now. Time for breakfast. For school. For the balloon ride of morning fantasy to pop. To eat alone on a table at this new school she hates, staring nervously at a boy who pays her no attention. “I got to go,” she says. ”I’ll see you at school,” he replies. ”You won’t. You never do.” Mom’s made scrambled eggs. She asks her Mom for a coffee. Mom laughs. “You never want coffee.” ”I want to know what it tastes like. I think I need to. Otherwise, I’m always just guessing, you know?” What she means is she’ll lower the balloon onto the sharp cliffs later today. She’ll say hi to him. She needs to. And if he turns away from her without replying and the balloon bursts, then fine. She’ll patch it up someday. Because that’s love, she decides. Finding someone to patch your balloon up with. And even if it doesn’t take off quite as high, the falls won’t break you apart. You’ll sit on the ground together draped in plastic, laughing, hands on bellies. ”Maybe you can try coffee tomorrow, okay?” says Mom, amused. “But right now, you’ve got to get going.” She glances at her watch. “And so do I.” Mom squeezes her. Has packed her lunch already. The girl feels loved, and even if it’s a different kind of love, it’s still nice. It’s reassuring. “It’ll get easier,” Mom says soothingly. “You’ve only been there a few weeks.” ”I know.” And she does know. It’s not her first new school. Mom gets moves around a lot. She leans over and kisses Mom’s cheek. Grabs her bag and heads to the door. ”Love you,” says Mom. ”Love you too.” ***** THE END.