I complain to you that
things in real life never happen like they do in films. No
one is waiting for me in the pouring rain or throwing pebbles at my
window. When we fight, we don't stand and scream with just the right amount of tears. You tell me it's okay. You tell
me that sometimes they do. You tell me that even when everything is
far too real, it doesn't have to be bad.
A few days later we are
sitting on the sofa together. We are talking and laughing about
nothing in particular. You have got your feet planted firmly on the
ground, and my legs are crossed.
“Put your arms up.” I
tell you, and you oblige. You look quizzical, but raise your arms anyway, an aeroplane.
I lean over and wrap my
arms around your middle, and yours fall into place around me. I hold
tight, not wanting to let go.
“See?” you say,
triumphantly, “Sometimes things do happen like they do in films.”
