The door squeaks as usual when I open it. Same as the coat closet, where I tiredly deposit my light wind breaker and worn Nikes. Yeeh, this place is screaming for some WD40. A paint job wouldn’t hurt either. The walls are littered with botched nail holes. What can I say? I’m no good at hanging pictures. Or keeping my hands off the walls, like Momma always said. But it’s home. I like it. My small apartment on Duraf Avenue, third story, suite 62. Yeah. Home.
After fixing myself a good-sized G&T, I flop bonelessly into the once-maroon couch that dominates most of the living room. I say ‘into’ because the thing’s so old it gives completely under the slightest weight. Damn, cheap rip-off. Never shoulda let the cute salesgirl talk me into it. But it’s mine. So I like it. Not much has ever been mine. And it’s like the embrace of an old friend, when the cushions fold around me. I only ever had one real friend and he bolted months ago for a war-buddy who stopped by to sweep him off his feet. Funny, I never pegged Duo that way. Maybe if I had we wouldn’t a’ grown apart so quickly.
Man, my mind still has trouble equating Duo with the word stranger.
But I can’t hate him for leaving me. He was never mine. Hell, I think as I find the remote and flick on the vidset, if it weren’t that loud-mouthed American, I wouldn’t have met her.
Her.
Ironically, she’s on the damn screen right now. The first thing I see. Preaching again. Peace this, peace that, make love not war, blah blah blah. That shit always turned me off. I mean, sure, I love peace, I love being able to come home every night without a new bruise or blood on my hands.
Hey, on that track, seems there’s a stain I missed right here.
Must be the liquor. I swish my iced gin thoughtfully. My mind is wandering. But geez, all that preachy-speechy-spiel can bore a girl after awhile. Anyone’s mind would roam. Really.
Or it could be the hooch.
High-n-Mighty lecture or not, I could listen to her voice for hours. It’s just that type; Melodic, soothing, infinitely gentle. At the same time fierce and impassioned. God she could rouse a hoard of mutes with a voice like that.
Personally, I always thought her voice was her best feature. But, lo and behold, the masses seem to disagree. I mean, her eyes are incredible. Dark aqua, like looking at the Marianas Trench from an airplane window. And framed by lashes that put Maybelline commercials to shame. Gorgeous. Especially when she wears green. For some crazy reason she does that rarely. Some diplomat shit, I bet. Her voice is still better.
Well, in reiteration, green or not, she’s got the figure. Unlike me. I guess your personality comes out in your body. She’s curvy, soft, pastel and rose. I’m sharp and angular, pale skin, biting colors. As opposite as opposite can get.
…And yet…we fit.
Oh god, we fit. So well. So damn well. Too damn well.
Wistful never suited me. I hate this mood. Maybe I shouldn’t think of her, because thinking of her always brings me to this point. I’ve tried that. Oh, I can’t help it. She’s so goddamned beautiful. Too beautiful for a soldier like me.
Maybe it’s the liquor. Gotta be the liquor. I lean forward for a better view of her fervent face.
Ah, Relena, my love. You’re so high now. Flying through breathless air. I can see the birds hundreds of feet below, bowing. They idolize you, but they can’t reach. Those heights are for you alone, the one place I couldn’t follow. Because I can’t reach the stars. But if I could…
You’ll stay there, on the crown of the stars, at the top of the world, I think. For a long, long time. Until dreams can survive by themselves again, and the world turns on an axis other than your effort. But you won’t always be needed. And someday, the heights won’t be so high anymore.
Me, I’ll sit here waiting on my frumpy couch, doing my mindless job and losing my battle with age. It’ll be a long time to wait. But I promised.
So I’ll be here when you come back down.
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