There was nothing left to do but laugh. It was the final coughing up of life from within the body. We laughed uncontrollably. Yet we did not know why. We could not stop either. Tears streamed down our faces. A small interval to catch our breath led to another bout of giggles that built itself into eventual laughter. Our bodies felt helplessly paralyzed in laughter. We were coughing now. I always cough when I laugh too much. Your gummy laughter was irresistible. I laughed like a retard. As usual. Just the way you hated it. Hahahahaha…
I saw you there as a stereotype. I myself was one. We were lovers. Individually. Your woman had given up trying to decipher your hidden metaphors. My man did not even try. So at the sea shore, because we were not frightened of the huge, flamboyant sea and because her melodramatic heaving was expressionistically our inner turbulence, we had decided to seek refuge in her.
We wanted to do a final giving up. We wanted to try and give up. Giving up had been an impossibility for us. We wanted to give up in the arms of the sea because she convinced us enough. We knew the sea would not give up on us long after we were gone. We would probably be fish feed or human pickle marinated in brine. This disease called love kept bringing us back to the shore like a discarded slipper that came traveling back on a wave chariot.
We walked into the night. Nightwalkers. Our rapid feet repeatedly got caught in the chill, dry-as-a-bone, sand. At every step, we had wanted to surrender to the sand. Bury ourselves neck-deep in its cold indifference. I slipped my hand into my lover’s. You had my hand in yours… because we chose to fall in love for an hour. An hour before we died we chose to walk into the night that was our lives, together. I would shamelessly express. You too would. We would pour out all the things that they could not decipher or did not listen to. Yet we did not want to construct meaning. We did not seek to understand.
Why did you kill my love? Did I not show to you every castle I built – crimson, viridian, aquamarine, ochre and burnt sienna? I hated you for ignoring the colours in them or rather the colourlessness in them. Inside your hermit crab shell, you ate my love in fragments. While I presented you with a feast, you went for the crumbs, like a penurious ant. That is why I am here. To kill myself. Because my love went unheeded.
You hated me for killing your love. I had, with great determination, pushed your love under the earth, alive and afire. While I flaunted my albatross-winged love, your sparrow love, I had secretly mocked. I was a better lover than you. Haha.. I still am. Is n’t that why you’re here to kill yourself? Because your love is inferior.
We are still mistakes. Unaccepted by each other. In an hour, we are not going to become accepting of each other. We shall accept ourselves as mistakes incapable of understanding others. I shall accept that you’re a mistake but I shall not accept you. You shall, in your usual indifferent manner, sweep me under the carpet. We shall remain as misunderstood mistakes.
The lighthouse beam was unerringly upon us, time and again. I did not want the floodlights to reveal my final moments to a world of publicly copulating mongrels on the seashore. I hide inside your palm. As a word, a memory and a forgotten fragrance. Then we kiss. We kiss into the night. For a minute, timelessly, we wish. Yet we are aware. We are not timeless. We are ordinary. We hear the sea, the vehicle horns and the children. An awkward kiss. Yet the last kiss.
And we used to talk about endless, immortal love. The movies had spoilt us. Are you not happy that we made a transient, dying, love? That we are only real and stuck to the earth. Is this not acceptance? We never published our books, nor did we ever learn to play the guitar. We are about to die incomplete as halved ideals.
Your woman has left you for another man. Face it. My man never was mine. We are incomplete old fools. Amusing! I did not know you before an hour. Yet I am in love with you because you are me. I just asked for an ear and you have it. To listen. You just asked for lips and I have them. To kiss.
I am not afraid of the crablets that scuttle over my feet. I am not hysterical or in need of your masculinity. I am in need of that fragment of me in you, which is about to walk into the sea with me. And we walk into the sea. A fear of being rescued makes us break into a run. The salty water is in my mouth. Sand is inside my clothes. For some reason, I am worried about sand entering my undergarments. I am worried I am still alive and worrying. I cannot see you. I feel complete in the cold embrace of the sea. I need it. I need the waves to thrash the pain out of me. I need us to come together inside the mouth of the sea, wet and embracing. We drown and breathlessly wish we had just enough strength to fight the sea, back to earth. Live. And we drown, laughing at our helpless asphyxiation. Just like love.
The following morning, the tabloids wantonly proclaim us as young lovers.