Love isn’t this thing that you see in the films; the film love is as fraudulent and false as anything else that comes out of Hollywood. That love described there is just what marketing people describe to wring a few more quid out of the wallets.

Killing Romance
Killing Romance (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I came home today after school, and when I come into the house there’s Mark working on something on the floor. His hair is sticking everywhere, and he has this pink flush in his face, as if he’s struggled physically with the mechanical part he’s working on.

I guess he’s already showered because he’s in his track pants and T-shirt, and not his normal clothes. This is just us, so he has certainly not bothered to dress up. It is what he’s comfortable in, and it doesn’t look like much. But him, in that, and with that flush, and the glittering eyes, and the smile, and the way the thin fuzz stick out where his hair forms an inverted V at the back of his head.

It’s that he still smiles when he sees me, and light up, and want to tell me about his day, and even though what he’s telling me is things he’s told me a thousand times before, I want to hear every syllable of it. Because it makes him smile like that, and it makes him so eager to talk and tell. Even if he tells me something about his school work that I don’t understand, I still want to hear.

Because this isn’t like in the movies where the only love that is worthy is managed and perfect and manicured, and needs a large bank account. This is just him, me, and him in his throw-away casuals, and that flush on his face, and that glitter in his eyes, and this warmth and fondness that start like a sweet hurt somewhere in my stomach and radiate out to the tips of my fingers and my toes.

That I should sit down and put a pillow in my lap so that I won’t embarrass myself doesn’t come into it, not really. Because acting on that would break the spell, and turn that intense fondness into something else. Not something bad, just something different. And sometimes I just want that fondness to go on and on and on for hours and days because that is the best feeling in the world. That is what love is; not the Hollywood kind. Not the fraudulent and cheap kind that cracks as soon as the façade wrinkles.

If metaphysical explanations exist in the world, then I wonder what kind of great deed I’ve done for Karma to reward me with this. It must have been something quite extraordinary.

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