Continuing The Theme of Hands

J meets R, R meets S, S dies...

R had a brilliant smile.

Brilliant in the literal definition of radiance, and brilliant in the British sense of greatness: a clever, great smile that began with shining eyes.

And with this, she had many admirers. Probably also with her wavy brown hair, that barely passed her shapely hips. There were so many things about her, and she was magnetic, sweet, slightly aloof. She also seemed burdened with that familiar curse, of boys always betraying her friendships by hoping for more.

Most guys fell for her. J fell hard for her, and entangled himself in a nearly year long tug of war of friendship, crush, confusion and frustration that was damaging to them both. Nights were spent together, as two simple friends, fumbling with emotional dependency but unwilling to move beyond and risk wrecking their ambiguous bond, which they both seemed to value enough to punish themselves for.

That emotional bond developed around the time S died.

By then, J had known R for a few weeks. He’d known of her months longer, through one of his closest friends, who had fallen into the same pattern with her he’d soon follow. Those two had a falling out as well, for the same reasons J and R did. Youth is so messy.

By the time R met S, she and J had become neighbours, and even though he had come into her acquaintance bearing the grudge of loyalty to his friend, J was soon regularly going to her apartment to watch movies and drink cheap beer whenever she invited him. Within a matter of weeks, with his close friend increasingly agitated by their new friendship, J was doing things like visiting her at her new job and crashing nights in bed together, fully clothed, at her apartment even though his own was about 5 doors down.

One day, while visiting her at her new job, R introduced J to S. He was tall, handsome and many things J was not. A photographic example of that British Bluebeat skinhead style. He looked really fucking cool. Way cooler, and way more sure of himself than J felt. And within days, S and R became “a thing”.

And within weeks, S suddenly died. And that’s when J and R became close.

The guy had had a heart attack. At 20 years old. Undiagnosed health issue. Tragic.

Sometime after the funeral, J and R were driving around town in her car. There was a tape playing, one that stayed in that cassette deck for months, continuing to loop and repeat until one day, the grieving over, she stopped playing it. S had made it for her right after they’d met, she told J, and obviously right before he died, since really their relationship could’ve only lasted a month at best.

A song on that tape always stood out to J because of the lyrics, so heartfelt and painful, which J could feel in his blood as he’d look at her, knowing she was feeling it in her blood too, being sung by someone who weeks ago was living and breathing.

Young love is so strange and messy and may not even be love at all, but is like cats playing to prepare their instincts for survival. If we survive our youth with our hearts intact enough to continue to love, we’re lucky indeed.