heroin*e

It was his heroin, to warm a woman’s heart, bring it to a boil and watch it explode, while he strode, outwardly self-assured, inwardly insecure and scared, away from the burning remains. Hair gelled back and his hands buried in his pockets, where he would find the odd change that would loosely bounce around in there, from a night he went out and got too drunk, yet again, to kill the qualm that would occasionally erupt, when he knew it was wrong what he did; what a way to apparently protect a heart.

He met a woman who was contrary to his usual prey, but he knew how to kindle it just rightly, to even with her, sneak his way, into her place of warmth and how to get hold of her hand that was implicitly giving, which almost irritated him, as she never retracted it and kept wrapping him up.

Where were the swear words he got so used to hearing? On their timeline it was long overdue. He was bad, why didn’t she curse him? Why didn’t she say what he believed to be true? Why was she not afraid to go skinny dipping, while he wouldn’t even dare jumping in the pool. Tremulous as he is and at risk of drowning if he would venture into the water, with his heavy coat on, which would get fully soaked, tearing him down, because he would refuse to get naked.

It was like he was gifted a voucher for a once in a lifetime experience. A bungee jump, a free fall, his soul being touched with pure intention. But fear lurking right behind his left ear, whispering to him lie after lie, and isn’t he already too old to give something new a try?

Angst looming, it dawned on him, though he was in strong belief he held the wheel. There was a woman holding the torch, not to scar him, simply to warm him, and she did it with grace, kindness and strong legs to outrun him in any race they could potentially face. In a real danger scenario she would know how to save herself. She was her own, a very true heroine, not his usual heroin.

And he was an addict, consistently looking for a new fix, to patch up the old, roaring wounds that date back to when he was a kid. And he never had them kissed, pouring salt down the grid, touching another woman’s breasts to release some sort of dopamine, which he could then drape over anything that hurt, at least momentarily, and that constantly. He was bad. He was hurt. And she wouldn’t swim away, even after he played all of his cards, using the heaviest trumps, that would bring best results – usually. Strangely she stayed, perfectly swayed through every generic thing that he said. He needed to run, something told him to flee, though his body wanted to stay. He did it anyway.

Gazing in the rearview, he still sees her face, a profile softly covered in a honey glaze. He could never return, because he was bad. At least that’s what he thought, because that’s what society said.