I don't think I'll ever forget the day you walked out of my life, temper blazing the color of your hair. Or rather hopped a train in hopes of trying to forget who you are… were? It's strange to think I may not even know the person you are anymore. It's been long enough for your wounds to heal; I'm still licking mine.
The hurt expression you left me with on the platform is burned behind my eyes. It haunts every moment. What are these moments anyhow? Considering I've been living in that singular moment for four years now. Would you even recognize if you saw me – right now?
I've been pushing papers at a publishing company in London for a while now. Just long enough to have a comfortable office, a comfortable flat, and a comfortably routine life in which to lose myself in. Wake up, go to work, come home, read, and sleep. Obviously I eat and shower and things, but I was just saying on a basic level.
I'm a vegetarian, love cats (have several…yeah), I go to the gym, and I have a mildly busy social life. A social life that consists of girls, Harry, and your brother. Your sodding brother. His stupid hair and stupid face and stupid eyes; forever a reminder of the person I loved most. He desperately wants to be that person. I desperately want to sever all ties, but I just can't bring myself to tear myself that far away from you.
It is only in my weakest darkest moments that I think about you. Mostly when I'm alone which has become more than frequent, especially at work. That's why I have the patience to deal with treacherous jezebels after my heart when all I want is some bloody affection. I don't seem to learn though, they're all the same. And they're muggles, all of them, each and every one. I stopped believing in magic the day you left – figuratively speaking. I knew I'd never feel the way I felt about you for anyone else ever.
Felt? Past tense? Have I moved on? Obviously not, I mean who the fuck soliloquies about something if they've moved past it? Maybe that's my problem. I don't want to move past you, the way you blurred instantly out of sight when your window passed me by. I watched the train until the steam dissipated in the distance.
I sat on a bench at the platform until the sky turned a darker shade of blue, the color your eyes were when I ran over to you. They were brimming with tears you dared not let fall, at least not in front of me. If you didn't even want to leave then why have you been gone so long? You gave me reasons that were not reasonable. Illogical. Why were you so afraid to love me?
I digress. I have a life. I've been living it falsely, but I've been living. I'm doing a lot better than expected. Over the last year I've been going out, meeting women; it's only been the last few months that I haven't been fantasizing about you when they touch me.
Only because it's a disappointment when they don't please me the way you used to.
No man or woman could ever make love to me with the burning intensity you did. You'd coax me in with a smirk that made nothing but dirty promises and wet knickers. You'd kiss me gently at first, tease me, and make me beg for more; only to surprise me with compliance to my pleas. Starting with my breasts, you were always so attentive. Kissing your way down my stomach (your lips making every nerve blaze), running your hands down my thighs (you always were one to enjoy the anticipation), you knew how to make me come over and over and still wanting more…
I always think of your fingers when I'm touching myself.
But it never was about the sex. It was just a very excellent treat that you're so gifted. People grieve losing lovers, but I mourn the loss of my best friend. You were my friend more than anything. Who was I supposed to go to when you left? Harry? Ha, and certainly not Ron. I was abandoned. You're the only person that I've really ever been close to.
Like I said though, I now live in a truly fantastical world where you do not exist. I am Hermione Granger: muggle, style editor, aspiring novelist, and the hottest bachelorette in London.
Which reminds me… I have a date tonight.
We rarely ever made it out on the dates we planned when we were living together. I can see you staring me up and down from the bed while I'm brushing my hair. You come up behind me, hands on my hips, and whisper the dirty things you wanted to do to me; kissing my neck and earlobe. All plans forgotten.
It was pointless to have brushed my hair.
But now you don't accost me from behind. I wait, but you never come. Begrudgingly I apply my make-up, in hopes this new girl doesn't notice that I don't sleep at night. Especially when I'm alone. Since being with you, the chronic snuggler, it's hard not to sleep with a pillow in my arms. I like to pretend I'm the big spoon and you're the little spoon… sigh.
I pour myself a drink before I begin the arduous task of picking out clothes. I take a sip of my cool glass of white zinfandel, which you hate. You were a red wine kind of gal; merlot, shiraz, pinot noir… full body reds. Sexy, bitter, dry… the things I feel when I think of you. That's probably why I don't touch the stuff, even though I only drank it with you.
Back in the mirror I can't help but notice the things you used to compliment me on. The things you used to lightly make fun of me for as well. All the while wishing you were watching me pull on my skirt and buttoning my sweater. I smile wryly to myself and slide on my flats. I look enchanting, any woman would want to do or be me tonight. Then why don't I feel as such? It's not a betrayal to you… is it? I'm assuming since I haven't heard from you, other than family gatherings, I think it's safe to say that I am not.
Those are always tough. Being that I don't especially have a family anymore, yours is mine. Thus I am forced to see you, thus nullifying any healing that could have happened. How are they to ever know what's bothering me, considering we never told them? They were as surprised as I was when you up and left.
She continues to talk on and on about her meaningless existence. She's a musician. Progressive. Underground. She has crazy idealistic hopes; breaking down genres while re-influencing them. An artist of sound. She really likes the sound of her own voice. An egotist flipping that all-wrong shaggy red hair over her shoulder.
I need another drink.
She's cute, other than the hair; trying to have the mysterious, miserable, artistic genius air. And she's too young for me to really talk to about politics. Uninformed. Passive because of apathy and boredom. She's mildly against government. I wonder what she'd do if she knew I worked for my own government at one point. Otherwise she's well read, well dressed, and has hands to die for. I have a thing.
Lucky for her, she's getting laid.
Back at her place I just start talking. You were always a good listener. She pours us each a Bacardi Coke. Not helping aid my lack of filter. I tell her things I haven't dare speak out loud in such a long time. I tell her how lonely I really am. How much I would like my work to get recognized. Also how I desperately need spontaneity and change in my mindless routine.
It's odd really, being in this girl's apartment. I saw her perform a couple of weeks ago, down at the pub. She noticed me in the crowd and approached me when her set was finished. I was on a date. She asked for my number and I gave it to her, never expecting her to call me. But here I am, sitting in a living room, reminiscent to Andy Warhol's: red couch, black chairs, glass coffee table, Marilyn Monroe on the walls… you get the idea.
By the time I'm done talking I realize she hasn't said a word, glasses emptied.
The next thing I know I'm in the bedroom. She's rolled a joint and lit it. We're sprawled on the bed, drunkenly telling stories, enjoying the company of the other. When did I get to this point in my life? When did Hermione Granger start smoking pot? When did I start dating girls five years younger than me?
I'm actually having a good time with this young libidinous creature. She has a kind face that glows when she smiles. Her hazel eyes are a nice break from the blue of the last girl. I take my hits and pass it back, all the while fawning over her. She wore a scarlet button up over a black crew tee and dark snug jeans. She has a confidence that you also have. Like you know you're the best lover this world has ever seen.
I feel oddly disconnected and continue telling her bits and pieces of my story.
I've known her for less then a night and already she knows more than most.
Nothing comparable to the things you know about me.
When it burned down to a roach she set it aside. The smell lingers heavily in the room; along with the haze, that also seems to be filling in the space between my frontal lobe and skull. She tells me I can do anything. I can be whomever and whatever I would like to be. She tells me the realization of my dreams depends on me and I need to pull myself out of this rut.
I throw myself at her. I'm on top of her, furiously unbuttoning her shirt and she's barely had time to react. Unlike some of the more recent ones, she can kiss. Sweet and gentle, but with such… intensity… I just can't help but want to see what she can do to me. Those beautiful hands of hers grab my wrists and finish up the task I started. It doesn't stop there, tearing off my sweater and pulling off my shirt. I return her favor and her crew neck lands on the beginnings of a pile on the floor.
She doesn't wear a bra, like you, and has beautiful breasts. They're round and full… and deliciously responsive. I feel the confines on my breasts slacken when she unclips my lacy black bra, sliding it off my shoulders. Reversing our positions, she settles her weight on me and grinds against me. I can hear myself responding, but not as much as I feel it. I can feel the arousal pooling between my hips, blood coursing with my heartbeat. I make her stop and unzip her jeans. She kicks them to the floor and pulls my skirt off.
I can tell she wants it so bad. Not as experienced as she wanted me to believe. Awkwardness never really bothered me. Especially since a good performance in spite of is a way to win a second date.
Oh yeah, her name is Elizabeth.
She likes to be called Liz or Lizzy.
I like to call her Elizabeth.