My Dearest Love

I always think it strange, how people can be so broodingly judgemental without knowing the depths of our love. I’d racketed through the hell-chatter of small talk on countless dates, each suitor as rich and repressed as the last. But my Violet is different. She’s so undilutedly herself, with a smile that washes pink like peonies, and silk sachets of hair that flow like blush stockings. 

I first met her in the market on a rainy day in June. A round-faced salesman with a too-white smile rammed my throat with his assaultive prices, like schismatic school mums at a charity bake sale. But all I could look at was her. She was doing that shy glance she does when she gets nervous – when she wants to look away but simply can’t. From that moment on, we’ve never looked back. 

We’re not perfect. Like all couples we fight: spit out words like acid that we don’t mean and tenderly regret. But when we make up, our love masses its strength; riots like we are all that is left of this blue, bitter planet; all that has survived God’s loveless promises. 

My friends have never taken to Violet. They throw their jealousy at her like stones and call her unbearable names. They don’t see what I see. 

In shops and restaurants people viciously stare. I know that Violet’s pristine beauty must seem unnatural alongside my innate commonness: my papery hair and eyes like ice chips.

My parents have stopped visiting. The neighbors ruffle their curtains threadbare. Strangers sneak photographs and snigger into their black, faceless mirrors. But it’s worth it. It’s all been worth it.

In the evenings, we sip sweet white wine and listen to the laments of LPs. The music pulses like a devoted heart. When her cheeks swell with modesty, smile bent, eyes alive, I carry her up the stairs in all her zygotic tranquillity. I cradle her warm curves in my lazy arms, and slowly kiss her thin, rose-pressed lips.

Then I hang her back up on the wall.