Enigmatic Emotions

(x) The centre of nowhere

"The weight of the world is love.
Under the burden of solitude,
under the burden of dissatisfaction
the weight, the weight we carry is love."

-Allen Ginsberg

Worcestershire, England 1941

Alan laughed incredulously at his own story, even though it was a painful memory. "That man had the nerve to tell me not to look at him like that because he was definitely not gay." He rolled his eyes and flapped his hands mockingly. "So I replied, "I shall poke my own eyes out, your majesty.""

Alan looked up, into the eyes of Christopher, who listened silently. He clucked his tongue before continuing his story. Not even a chuckle?

He cleared his throat and raised his eyes to heaven, with a hint of a smile. "You should have been there. With your sharp tongue, we could have taught the man a lesson. Just like with Cyril. James, on the other hand, didn't even defend me. Or maybe he was momentarily pained by that remark. With that, I stood up and told James – loud enough for everyone to hear – that he shouldn't count on me sharing the bed with him tonight."

Christopher's blue eyes stared back with deep disappointment. Alan sat down on the grass with a sigh, colouring his grey trousers green.

"Not one of my better actions, I know. I shouldn't have made that poor boy pay because I was hurt."

James Atkins was the first and only person – so far – who had declared his love for him. He had told Chris these stories countless times, but it relieved to have a listening ear.

Alan placed his hands behind him on the damp ground and closed his eyes. In his mind, he was back at university, at a party in the outdoor courtyard. The sweet and sour smell of lemon drizzle cake and above all, the warmth of James' ensuring arms around him.

Followed by the chill he felt when their first kiss, that same day, flashed before his mind's eye. Alan had taken the initiative. He remembered how James' long hair had tickled his nose, the awkwardness and novelty of first love.

Alan opened his eyes again. Love, was it really love when you secretly wished it was someone else's arms around you?

He would never forgive himself for his missed opportunities with James.

"It's a miracle he continued our relationship for so long," he whispered, still guild-ridden. "But somewhere we knew we could never really be together. Like two stars in the sky, knowing from the start that it would end in a blindingly beautiful catastrophe. Doesn't that sound familiar to you, Chris?"

When there was no answer, Alan grabbed a pebble and smashed it against the red wall of the church. Surely the stained-glass window depicting St Christopher would never open its mouth.

And yet. The image of the saint, who bore his friend's name, had been placed at Mrs Morcom's request. It was the closest he could get to Chris. His tombstone was also right next to him in the process. Over the past decades, some moss had wrapped itself around the stone. Not that he neglected the grave, he just knew Chris' love for nature was as great as his own. Now he was one with the earth. Every few years, he would come to lay daisies and fill Chris in on the twists and turns of his life.

"I'm sorry you know," he said in a suddenly serious voice, "I never got a scholarship to Trinity. The place reminded me too much of you and the event after the weekend we spent."

Mourners in the graveyard and visitors to the chapel stared after him, wondering why an almost thirty-year-old man was sulking on the ground like an ill-mannered child. Talking to a wall.