The picture doesn’t quite capture it, and I don’t want to try using the flash—I suspect that would spoil the effect, and besides, it would disrupt the experience for the other people here.
We exit the building on the opposite side and go in search of other installations. We discover an enormous marionette that looks somewhat terrifying, plus strings of lights in a Spirograph-like design.
I’m doing a combination of observing the lights and observing Taylor, who points at things and says, “Isn’t this cool?” or “Look at that.” I doubt I would have come here if not for him, and if I did happen upon this by myself, I’d walk through quickly and miss half of it.
We’re standing amongst strands of vertical blue and purple lights, which change to pink and white a moment later, when I shiver. Not just a tiny shiver. No, a large, jerky shiver that’s impossible for Taylor to miss.
He responds by wrapping his arms around me.
It doesn’t warm me up a great deal, but I still like it. We’re both wearing parkas (though mine clearly isn’t good enough), and his body heat isn’t all that close to mine, but I press my cheek against his warm neck.
And as he’s holding me, I decide that Taylor is just the right size.
Some women have a thing for big men, guys who are over six feet tall with broad shoulders, but I don’t. My first boyfriend, back in university, was six-three and literally weighed twice as much as me, most of it muscle, but I found the size difference awkward. It didn’t make me feel delicate and feminine, not that I particularly care about such things anyway. No, it made me feel like a child. He stood more than a foot above me, and in our pictures together, I thought it looked odd.
But Taylor is five-five, and it would be easy to tip my head up and kiss him.
He looks up at the lights above us before looking down. At me. Then he starts moving us slowly, side to side, as if we’re dancing. Though I hate dancing, I’m weirdly okay with this—and not because it would make our act believable if Auntie Lisa or someone else happened to see us.
When Taylor tips his head down, my heart starts beating quickly, and I gaze into his eyes, transfixed. He really has such beautiful dark eyes, with faint creases at the corners because they can’t help but involve themselves whenever he smiles. Like right now. And the way he’s looking at me…it’s as if I’m the one putting that smile on his face.
I can’t help but kiss him.
I feel him smile broadly against my lips, and then he’s kissing me back. Gentle and slow, but building in intensity. His mouth is warm compared to the cold around us. My body liquefies, and he holds me close so I don’t collapse on the ground.
No, I’m staying right here with him.
My eyes drift shut, and I focus on nothing but Taylor and his clever month, his kiss becoming needier. The movements of his lips quicken, and his tongue grazes mine. I shiver again—but not because I’m cold. I’m pure heat, and I just want to stay here forever. Fuck my job and rent; I want to move permanently into this moment.
A man stumbles against us, pushing me and Taylor apart.
The spell is broken.
I’m now acutely aware of the fact that there are lots of other people standing in the darkness. The lights around us…they’re too bright. And the air…it’s too chilly.
“Let’s get you inside,” Taylor says.
I haven’t been to this part of the city in a long time, but he knows where to find a coffee shop. We both get apple cider, then take a seat as far from the door as possible. We move our chairs so we’re both against the wall, and he takes off his jacket and hat. I admire his side profile—including his lips, which I just kissed—and hair. It’s tied up and trailing down his back.
Apparently, I have a thing for long hair on men. I didn’t know that about myself before. Or maybe it’s not men in general, but just Taylor.
That’s a slightly disturbing thought, but I do my best to ignore it.
“You feeling warmer?” he asks.
I nod then have a sip of cider. Somehow, it’s tastier than any hot apple cider I’ve had before. Probably just because I haven’t had it in a long time.
Twenty minutes later, when the coffee shop is about to close, Taylor asks if I’m warm enough to see the rest of the lights, and I say yes. I don’t want him to miss seeing anything.
We hold hands again, but it’s different now; I’m holding the hand of a man I kissed. What does this mean? Is my subconscious just particularly keen to make this relationship look as realistic as possible?
I decide to push such thoughts aside and enjoy tonight.
When we pass under a long archway strung with green lights, a few larger pink bulbs here and there—are they meant to look like roses?—Taylor stops and looks down at me with a question in his eyes.
I nod.
He kisses me.
