Page 28 - The Bridge Vol 17_pgs

The Bridge

Almost

SHAYLA HINDS
fiction

I loved the butterflies I felt around Her. That daydream of eyes the color of swirling mocha. I
nervous swarm of monarchs zipping around in assure her that I’ve been awake for a while. I gesture
my belly. I thought butterflies were so beautiful, for her to speak, knowing that she’s not the type to
so free—who knew they could also be so ugly? So call for no reason.
painful and dreadful and nauseating. Butterfly “Don’t be mad,” she cautions, her strawberry
wings crowd and flutter harshly. I wish I could lips pouting. “But I just wanted to hear your voice,”
swallow a net and collect them all. she says, puffing her cheeks up playfully. I heave a
I never questioned my sexuality until I met small, amused huff before jokingly rolling my eyes.
her. I always imagined marrying a man until the “Wow, waking me up for this—” she tries to
night she stayed up with me just to hear me rant. cut me off mid-sentence, protests that I was already
I always thought of walking down the aisle to my awake, and I just giggle again. I tell her about
future husband until I suddenly had dreams of cooking dinner with my mom and how I haven’t
being led to a woman also wearing a white dress. studied for any of the tests coming up. Meanwhile,
They say kids are supposed to be dumb and make her eyes are soft, a well of fresh coffee simmering
mistakes. Are these dreams just another childhood inside them. I am convinced she is straight. I am also
fault? Is my overwhelming desire to kiss, to touch, to convinced that she feels the same overwhelming
enjoy another woman just that? A desire? bubble of emotion I do with each hug.
I refuse to believe it. Her touch feels like a Our relationship is demanding. Like rose vines
cool stroke of aloe over flaking, burning skin. Her creeping up a wall, her cloying affections cover up
gaze sets me aflame like a volcano, setting me in her claims for my attention. Covered by petals, it is
ash like the people in Pompeii. How can I keep easy to ignore the biting thorns. I overlook how those
denying my feelings when every time I am with prickly arms choke me, mistaking it as an embrace. I
her, my body screams the truth? hate when she touches me like I am in a display case,
Everything has changed with a burst of starlight, different from the others she carelessly interacts
colored sparks flickering when her name lights up with. They exist in a realm of no consequences,
on my phone. Flushed pink already creeping onto while every moment with her feels like a continuous
her cheeks as if she is blushing blossoms. charge through a field of land mines. The stigma of
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” she questions. I the ‘gay friend’ clings to me like dirt.
glance at the time, only now noticing the late hour. I’m no stranger to the notion of giving up.
Interesting how fast time will move while you Every night I ponder the thought. Giving up on

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