heroine of foolish nostalgia

“Bathe me in goodness,” she said, breaking the warm silence of the morning. As she said it her lips twisted ever so slightly into a smirk. The thin streaks of sunlight that shot into the room darted across the musky, dust speckled air and touched her ivy green eyes ever so slightly just before she turned. I hated that smirk. And I loved those eyes. Loved those eyes, more than the life they were so full of.

“Bathe you?” I said, as I rolled over in the bed and reached for the cup of water I had set on the floor the night before.
“Why not?”
“Don’t be so trite Alex.”
She seemed content with my answer and rolled over on her back. I stared at her body under the thin sheets, the silhouette of her petite breasts rose and fell with each breath. The sun lit up her face. I wondered if I could love something more than I did right then.
She broke the quietude again, “Tell me a story.”
“I love you.”
“That’s not what I said. Tell me something fresh.”
“Huh?” I loved every second of it.
“Something I haven’t heard a thousand times. Something scandalous!” She smiled slyly.
…

The summer had been wonderful, financially catastrophic, inundated with indulgence and cheer. Graduating from college happens to be one of the most terrible things ever invented. Truly horrifying. For so many years spent effectively pretending not to notice one’s acute irresponsibility, graduating from college is not unlike, I imagine, how an inmate feels after being released from a 22 year prison sentence—certainly not good.
Work? Get a job? Four years of indoctrination aimed at convincing you that reading interesting books and writing about them is legitimate, enriching work and now we’re supposed to get a fucking job? “It aint me Ma,” you must be dreaming. Just when we learn how to learn, learn how read, society plays the nastiest trick of all. Recess was pretty bad but graduating from college? That’s cruel.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” I said.
“I wish. Do you?”
“You couldn’t. Only I can see it.”
“Only you, huh? I can’t decide if that’s a complement.”
“Only me.” Alex never much responded to my doting. I had no reason to think she would. I guess it never deterred me all that much.
“How long has it been?” I said.
“It never was.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
…?…
“Okay.” Alex gleamed and gloated. She knew. “You know how the bed is always the most comfortable in the morning when you have to wake up?” I didn’t answer. “Why is that?” I didn’t answer. “Love me.”
Alex’ jet-black hair glistened. I couldn’t help but feel inadequate. She was right. The bed is always best in the morning. Not unlike college after graduation, I thought. Maybe it has something to do with that point just between past and present. The point where present realities are made into memories, heroine of foolish nostalgia. So sweet. So terrible for its impossibility.

As Alex and I made slow, tender love, the morning’s inquisitive rays peaked in on the matter, painting a checkered spotlight on the bed as we made youthful memories. A god’s toothless grin. A babe’s whimper. Wisdom and innocence collided head-on into pleasure.