Nothing more intimate

The two of them stand in the hallway, eyes at each other, not quite knowing what to say, almost certain that words aren’t needed. The woman leans forward, impulsively but softly kissing the corner of the man’s lips. The man is surprised, but delighted.She leans back, only to lean over again to kiss his neck, the part just beside the bounding pulse. She could smell the coffee he took at The Two Windmills that afternoon. She kisses his eyelids.


She looks at him, points to the corner of her lips. The man happily kisses the spot tenderly. He kisses her neck, feeling the remnants of a tear on her cheek. He kisses her eyelids, before their lips finally meet.

————

You probably realize by now that that’s a scene in Amelie and that it could possibly be the most beautiful scene in any movie ever. And it's the number one fantasy that I want to do. ;) Nothing could be more intimate than this! I don’t know if I did any justice to that scene at all though. lol. Basically this is what you get when you watch Amelie over and over again (I watched it yesterday, and today, and probably tomorrow too). If you haven’t watched this movie yet, watch it, and I hope I didn’t spoil the story too much for you.

What it takes to skip a heartbeat

She stands among the crowd. Theyre either listening intently or half-listening to the man on stage, talking about global warming, natural disasters, tsunamis, that kind of stuff. Her classmates are horrified. She feels someone move in beside the pillar she was leaning against. She pretends to look around, spots his friends, and finally lays her eyes on him, standing a little ways to her left. She wonders what powers would urge him to stand so close to her, causing her heart to palpitate with his strong presence. She keeps on standing in the same spot, trying to keep a relaxed pose while straining to understand the speaker's lecture on disaster management. Futile. She could smell his scent -- a hint of aftershave. She could even feel his eyes on her. Could it be --


~~~~~


Everywhere he went, he would see her. An unusual girl. But their classmates respected her. She was always the type to get things done excellently. She was someone they could depend on with school affairs. Who knows what possessed them to vote him as the VP to her President. The more he thought of that, the more he thought that if it wasn't for his stint as vice president, he wouldn't have known about her love for books, for Bruce Willis movies, and wrestling. He couldn't have spent so much time with her to notice that she scratches her elbow everytime she lied, or how bright and pretty her eyes looked when she was intently discussing plans for the school fair. If it wasn't for all that time, he wouldn't have fallen in love with her.


He would have to explain later to their homeroom teacher why he was late for the assembly. It was convenient, however, because he was placed in the back, near to where she was standing. He sees her surreptitiously scanning the auditorium, but she doesn't seem to notice him. She was nearsighted where things really mattered. At least he was able to admire her from this angle. The light did great things to her eyes (lately he was obsessed with how light touched her face), which did strange things to his stomach. Here comes the butterflies. 


What was the guy at the podium talking about? Something about tectonic plates. It didn't matter. He's too busy thinking up a plan to make her a part of his world.


~~~~~


-- nah, he can't be looking at her. It's her with her assumptions again. Why must he be so cute? Why must he bear himself with such grace not commonly found in boys his age? How can he be manly and boyish at the same time? He had no idea how he can be so influential with their classmates. A natural peacemaker. He should be a diplomat. Not only that, but she noticed a kind of brilliance in him that he doesn't care to show. She had a funny feeling he could easily surpass her.


Was it, or was it not, incredibly hot in that gym? She drags her friend toward the lavatory to get some fresh air. She passes him, once again smelling that aftershave. But there's something gnawing at her. They say that if you catch a guy turn his head to look at you while you're passing by, it means he likes you. What the heck? Might as well find out.


~~~~~


He could smell the scent of raspberries as she passes him on her way to the girls' room. His eyes follow her. He was unaware that he had half-turned his back at the podium, and was all but ogling her. Her back is turned towards him, but she suddenly turns her head. 


~~~~~


Their eyes meet. 
A heartbeat. 
Then a skip.


April 4, 2011
----------------------------------------


I think  love stories are the easiest to write, don't you? Or maybe girls just have a huge reservoir of fantasies. OR maybe it's just me.

This story got quite of hand. I thought it would take only a few paragraphs, but I guess I really was trying to build a novel (?). Now that I think about it, I shou;dn't have tried to supress it. I'm uncomfortable writing love stories (though I have written a few), when all I have ever experienced were unrequited loves. I wonder if the one who read this thinks its as cheesy as I think it is. But then again, love stories have a certain level of cheesiness.

Something romantic

She looked into those eyes that pierce through her soul. She remembered how he would move with subtle grace, oh so natural, yet with such strength. He had a bearing that says he’s self-assured and you’d feel he can take care of everything unselfishly. He still had humility, he was goofy but when you needed an ear, he’d listen and had a lot of things to say about one thing and even more with just one look. She always liked talking to him, he understood her perfectly well. All these qualities were overwhelming her and she couldn’t help but smile and then sigh.

“What’s the problem?” he asked. So typical – as if he wasn’t aware of his charms.

“You can be so dense sometimes” she said exasperatedly. Though to whom she was irritated with she wasn’t sure: him or herself. She sighed again as if expelling the bad air out of her system.

Constance looked at his eyes straight on. “It’s just I can’t take this anymore. You’re so darn good looking and we get along so well. Being with you is beyond any fantasy I’ve ever had. You’re the culmination of every dream guy I ever imagined. It’s so unbelievable! Needless to say, I like you a lot.”

She slid against the refrigerator to the floor and looked up at him, emphasizing even more their height differences. There was a long silence. “You’re also very dangerous. I can’t even think anymore when I’m with you,” she closed her eyes and attempted to rest. Confessing like that took the toll out of her.

“Stan…” he said. She felt him crouch to her level and opened her eyes to see his face very close to hers.

“Oh please, Dmitri, do not even think of kissing me right now. I poured my heart and soul to you and I want to hear what you have to say,”

Dmitri leaned back. "First of all, who said anything about kissing you? Aren't we a little too full of ourselves?"


To an outsider, this would be considered the worst reply to a love confession of all time. But this was Dmitri. So she started to punch him in the arm, but lost heart because this was becoming a cliche. She laughed instead. "Oh God, you're right. We should probably get started on those croissants." Constance started to get up.


"No, wait." Dmitri said. "I think it's only fair that we should continue what you started.  You wanna hear my say right?" He looked at Constance with an enigmatic look in his eyes. He was holding her down by her shoulders. He smiled slightly. "I happen to think you're amazing. You're not like other women, are you? I like being with you so much, I don't know how not to know how to act with you. I know how when you get hold of a retractable pen, you can't not use it without pushing it a thousand times first. I love how (insert everything that Dmitri loves about Constance here). But now...you caught me completely off guard." 


Constance was stunned. But not stunned enough to say this. "Okay, you can kiss me now."


-- February 8, 2009




this is what you get when you read Susan Elizabeth Phillips.
It really was a culmination of my fantasies. If this were turned into a romance novel, this would take part in the middle-to-end. I was envisioning this happen in a kitchen, in a bed-and-breakfast or something.


 My God this was so cheesy. I still laugh whenever I read this. But this would be my dream guy. Because he would only exist in dreams. I loved fantasizing about him. ;)


I had noticed that I wrote this on February two years ago, and now I'm reposting this on a February. Is this the Valentine's Day effect? whut?!


The ones in Italics are the ones I recently added. After two years, that was what I could add. I'm so sleepy and clueless as to what Dmitri would say, that I didn't get to finish his monologue. I just can't write love stories. Or stories. Period. I can only write snippets. I'm lame. I know.

The lover of books

A bug, rather, a very small insect, lands on the 84th  page of the book I'm reading. It's black, and its three eyes, if they ARE eyes, look like black furballs. When I try to blow it away, it resists, choosing to stay on that page. I don't want to squish it on purpose. Maybe it likes to read too. Maybe it's savoring the smell of the paper, like I do, especially the brand new ones.

I see these bugs all the time, squashed between a book, dead. A bookbug. I wonder if it loves books so much, that to it, to die within a book, its last sight those of words, is a glorious way to die.

One Look

The writer had known the girl for quite some time now.

It was on a breezy Friday afternoon when the girl moved in on the apartment a floor from his. He had just sent the draft to his editor, and the girl was carrying a large statue of a dog, which interestingly resembled an elongated Scooby-Doo. When the girl saw him, she smiled and headed upstairs, failing to notice his outstretched hand. She seemed determined to carry that dog right to the fourth floor. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to insult her strength why he didn’t insist on helping her, but at that split second, he sensed she was not the kind of girl to accept help easily, especially from men. That smile said it all: “hello, nice to meet you. I’m quite capable of carrying this statue, thank you, and I don’t really think I’m in the mood to meet new people today.” He could still surprise himself with his perceptiveness.

    They eventually became friends. She was a chef in some three-star restaurant, and had quite a lot of friends herself. And it was in those lunchdates,  Halloween parties, general get-together picnics and lazy afternoon conversations that he knew these of her: she had a way of handling and mingling with people without giving away the fact that she was basically shy. She liked having company and frequently cooked for her friends, but she could be as happy alone. She was an intellectual, with many diverse interests. Like him, she was a dreamer, but probably with more ambition and a truckload of insecurities. It must be her personal demon. She wouldn’t show her insecurity willingly, though. She was an essentially strong woman, who, despite her insecurities, would always look towards the light. She was sanguine and moody. A contradiction.

    Today, she was feeling particularly forlorn. Probably her demon acting up again. She looked bored and dissatisfied, and the writer could see she needed a distraction, a redirection of thoughts. It wasn’t good to keep on being melancholic. She needed a friend.

    He approached the bench she was sitting at in the park. “If you want to look ugly, all you have to do is take off your concealer and show your eyebags instead of sulking in a park,” he told her. “It just doesn’t work. You look like a sad Giselle(you know, from “Enchanted”?)”

    She rolled her eyes. “Please don’t compromise your masculinity by admitting Enchanted’s your favorite movie.”

    “Women find it sexy, actually.” He was glad to see her lips curve upward and that haughty look come back to her face. She had returned to life. “There’s a children’s choir concert on the east park. That’d be entertaining.” He held his hand out to her.

    She looked up at him with eyes that said thank you.

    “Well, I do love children,” and she took it.

-dated February 24,2009. wrote this on a whim, when I was trying to portray Woman as an ambiguous being, both strong and fragile, and how lucky she is to have a man that understands her with just one look. sort of inspired by Jason Mraz's song "A Beautiful Mess" (which BTW I think is one of the most romantic songs about relationships ever). :) 


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photo by KECHI@DEVIANTART