Their Bench In Bath
They are in love, a love so blatant a blind man could see it. A specific heat radiates from them like the sun smashing rays into your skin on a warm June day. Near the Roman Baths, York cuts across Kingston and Church Street, creating a square at the feet of the Abbey. They sit across from me in the courtyard, my eye-line one of the congruent diagonals where I have a perfectly candid view of something so naturally human. To see is to be reminded of life’s great imperative, which makes life worth living, feeding into the final, ultimate contention; life is meant to be lived, and love is meant to be had. An exquisitely inseparable interdependent component where to lose one is to lose the other.
She runs her hand through his hair in a delight so serene I think they may fornicate in the square, oblivious to decency laws and utterly unaware of the public surrounding them. In a bubble, the outside world is of little importance; nothing much matters outside their bench in Bath. He holds the wrist cradling his head in a loose grip, her fingers crawling up behind his right ear. His eyes are shooting a look so strong I think he may be able to see straight into her mind. His lips are moving, but I’m too far to hear the words. I imagine his lips move in an unending search for hers. Words are insufficient in describing the feeling; only a mutual understanding suffices as a stand-in for the thing called love.
I am unsure if love ever leaves; eviction is not an option as love has perpetual squatters rights. Love sits somewhere in the center of your chest; removing it would be to remove an internal organ integral to function and expect to remain unchanged. Fighting it is useless as it always wins and always conquers its foe. It may become smaller as time passes, carved out, making room for more pushes the original version to the margins, but it is always there, always steadfast in staying put, right there at the center of your chest. You may begin to neglect it, but love never needs your attention. You didn’t choose to create it; it happened in an instant and locked itself in. You have a say in the matter, like you have a say in being born.
Cover art: Shane Feeney - Somerset
