Just To Give You a Few Words

By
I am Juliet; I wait patiently for my Romeo’s forbidden love. The night air blows through the screen door and offers a slight, instantaneous relief from the heat of the house. My ears tune in to life itself it seems, as they pick up even the faintest of sounds. I want nothing more than to hear his footsteps as he walks softly on the sidewalk’s concrete pavement. The evening breeze stirs the leaves of the trees and the metallic wind chime makes it sounds softly in the moonlit yard before me. The ringing of the chime as it strikes itself seems otherworldly, and I begin to fall into a slight trance. The sounds are calming, but my stomach is suddenly queasy and I regain my focus. I am the wolf, and the woodsman has filled my stomach with rocks after my attack on red riding hood. I have that deep sinking and heavy feeling attributed with nerves, and I wish it were as easy to ignore as stomach butterflies. My nerves are worked up over him and not the risk I take by meeting him; of this I’m sure. No one can know that anything is going on between us, but it’s a familiar situation. Nothing is new about our secret meeting habit, this isn’t the first time, it’s simply the first time in about a year. As far as everyone, who would be concerned, is aware I wouldn’t even dream of wanting to see him again. I wonder if my hair looks okay, it’s silly but I run to the bathroom mirror and fuss with it. I let my fingers run through the silky strands, trying to perfect the way they fall. I shouldn’t be insecure, because I’m about to meet someone I’ve known for years, but I can’t help worrying over my hair. My biggest worry should be the fact that I’m sporting my pin-stripe pajama pants and a simple tank top, but sadly it’s not. I quickly run back to my chosen waiting spot, wanting nothing more than to see him. Colors brighten as I begin to focus my eyes in hopes of noticing him, waiting somewhere in the darkness. The awning above the door was never so brilliantly white as it is in the dim lighting. Every time a bush moves I allow my eyes to dart in the direction of the disturbance, hoping it’s him. My eyes, and my eagerness, deceive me he has yet to arrive.
Moments have never felt so much like an eternity. The letter of complete ardor I’ve compulsively drafted, and revised countless times, in the past hour feels heavy in my hands. I want nothing more than to place it within his hands. The night is beginning to feel cold, I shiver and shake slightly and marvel at the sudden change in temperature. I allow my mind to wander and I begin wonder what the letter I’ve composed will mean to him. It’s full of complex speech with a reference to a royal Egyptian couple I’m fond of, he’ll appreciate it for those reasons alone I’m sure. We share so many loves, Egyptian culture being one of them. I know he’ll appreciate my slight reference to his ancestors, and there is no doubt in my mind he will pick up on it. The appreciation would however, be stronger if he didn’t have a Nefertiti at his side already. He would love this letter with all his heart had it not come at the wrong time. The letter wouldn’t need to confess feelings of love if I hadn’t denied my love for him. A stupid mistake I had made simply because of the lies contained in the whispers of those around me. I begin to wonder if this letter is such a good idea. I can picture my fingers as they deftly tear open the white paper envelope containing a single printed sheet, a sheet with text that that means so much to me, and tear it apart. I see myself destroying it; obliterating the words and sending my feelings into oblivion. I try to push those thoughts out of my mind. This letter is something he needs. This letter embodies all of my feelings. There is no way he won’t care, my worries can be nothing but trivial.
If that piece of paper gives me just one more late night discussion with the only person my age, whose intellect I admire than everything, it seems, will be right in the world. I want to see him. There is a chance that he will reject the proposition presented by the epistle of my feelings, composed solely for him, but if there is anything right in this world I know that he won’t. Our bond has always been deeper than that. This letter will serve it’s purpose; my mind sees this going no other way. The words I’ve charily strung together will show him myself as I am now. They will show the mature person I’ve grown into, the person he always saw when no one else did. Then I hear his footsteps, finally. I take in the sound, wanting selfishly to hold it forever. My heart begins to race. Within seconds we will be face-to-face, and the weight in my stomach is gone and the butterflies have taken their rightful place. He’s here, and I couldn’t ask for more. The night is young and I want to hear his voice, it’s something I’ve needed for awhile. He’s the only person I truly learn from talking to, and he needs to know that. He is the Pharaoh Akhenaten, he has come back to the queen as if from the dead, and there is no way he will not embrace his co-regent with open arms.





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