Dear Devon

I find it embarrassing when people kiss in public. Last night I was waiting for a train when I saw a young Asian girl leaning in for long, deep kisses from her equally young lover. My first instinct was to look away but then I remembered one time I too kissed in public.

It was years ago by a train station in Vancouver, with a boy named Devon. He had long curly hair and he was a decade or two my senior, but youth-like in his ways.

Devon was similar to me, only better. He spoke in a theatrical language. He put melody into everyday words. He reached out to help his community but poked fun at those set on changing the world. I was attracted to him yet afraid he’ll see in me a smaller version of him.

He didn’t have much money, but I had even less, so we would walk a lot, hold hands, put them up to let garbage bins placed in the middle of the sideway pass under…

Always he carried a backpack from where he’d take out small treats: tiny pieces of chocolate, hand lotion, lip balm, essential oils… We shared all.

Everything about Devon fascinated me, except three things. One, he seemed to be the mature version of me, which felt terrifying since I couldn’t accept ending up a bohemian artist as a grown up.

Two, his hair was turning grey and it made him look older than he felt to me. I was young at the time and old age scared me. His lean, slender body and his soft, strong hands turned me on, whilst his grey hair put me in panic.

Three, he was poor, and so was I. My only wish at the time was to stay away from poor people like me, so I could stop being one. But his loving words and childish sweetness drew me in like the sight of some great riches.

The train finally arrives. The young girl’s lover is wearing a long scarf and he throws one end over his shoulder. But, a current of air sends it to the girl’s face, making it slap against her cheek.

Dear Devon, if I could see you again now, I would get close to your face, I would bring my eyelashes next to your nose, and I would blink a few times to drop off a couple of kisses.

Since C. Went Away

Since C. went away two weeks ago, I’ve been starting to forget him. At night, I close my eyes and try to remember his face, but it’s all blurry. I can still see his long, slender body. The soft, tender skin I once touched with my finger. And his dark, rebel short hair. Luckily, his round hazel eyes are still there, shooting kindness blink by blink.

I still know what belt he uses the most, what sweatshirt he puts on when it’s cold, and how softly he talks to me. It still makes me laugh how he calls people who protest ‘capricious‘, and how he loves to smoke a cigarette and eat chocolate mousse after yoga class. At first, I missed him so much, I’d look away when passing by beautiful men.

Now I feel curious again.

Every Monday I have Russian class and C. comes to mind. One day after the gym, I told him about my love for languages.

‘You know, I told my Russian teacher about you and how you’re from G… originally. They said: oh dear, G… sucks!‘

‘Your what? Your Russian teacher? You’re learning Russian?‘

‘Yes! And Spanish, and Farsi, and Italian!‘

He looked at me with the eyes of a cat in the face of curiosity.

I hope C. will be back soon. In any case, he’ll always be a part of me. His tastes have changed mine. I’ll always be gentle, delicate and delicious like him. When people infuriate me now, I seem to land on a kind thought, like he would do.