L I T T L E B E A U T I E S

Dear me,

I'm writing this from the memory of when you watched a snake shed its skin with a friend and how he turned to you with disgust and asked about how something so ugly could be so damn beautiful.

We watched it slowly slither away from itself, leaving a ghost behind. I can't remember much after that, and I guess that's why I'm writing this. There is a part of me that hopes he never gets to read this because what if he never knew? But I need it all out of my head.

---

The first day you met him, he lay in the grass outside the pub where your parents drank. You were waiting for them to be done, so you could go back to your Caravan and sleep, and he was doing the same. Kids often waited in the field outside the pub because of the rule "no kids allowed inside after 7". Thinking back, maybe that was an excuse made up by parents to have "adult time," But nevertheless, it was a chance to meet other kids, and it was always a good time. You saw him lying alone, drinking a bottle of Ribena while looking up to the sky.

It had been a warm day, and the air was just beginning to cool off with a stormy sea breeze. Remember? You could hear the waves and even feel its fine spray, or maybe that was the occasional drop of rain falling from the sky you looked up at. The air held a blue haze, and there were warm yellow lights softened by curtains on caravan windows and street lamps that stained the pavement gold. The wind churned up the smell of fresh dirt and stale petrichor from forgotten rainfalls, and it made the night feel fantastical.

"Hello," you said innocently.

And without question, he invited you to lay down with him and look up.

"It's gonna storm," he said.

And sure enough, there was lighting in the sky. It flickered like a loose bulb, and there was the occasional rumble that seamlessly melded with the roar of the waves.

We exchanged names, but I regret waiting so long to write these letters, as I've forgotten his name. It is funny how you can remember his presence and existence, but not the name that gave him an identity. And so, I write this, because soon…

Anyways,

We made mustaches from dirt and drank the Ribena as if it were wine, and we stumbled past the windows acting like we were drunk and old. You saw your parents sitting in a booth by the window with a bottle of red wine in between them. They tried their best to act as if you weren't there because they knew if they made eye contact, you would try to talk to them. So you continued to act drunk, taking swigs from the Ribena and pacing back and forth past the windows because you knew they were just pretending.

"they don't care," he said to you, and you gave up trying to get their attention.

You thought they were selfish and uncaring, wondering how they could ever find fun in just sitting and talking over a bottle of Merlot. So you decided to have fun.

---

The first day you loved him, he was trying to take a picture of the moon. Yes, you had known each other for years at this point, but you had both reached the dating age, and your love which was bound by innocence, had grown up with you. It was the night of his first date, and you helped him get ready. Just like when you were young, you found yourself sitting in that field beside the pub, waiting. Only this time, you were alone. He was so excited, and you tried your best to hide your jealousy. Do you remember that? How awful all the jealousy felt? Sitting outside the pub, and peering through the windows from far away, as if you were an anxious kid again, looking at him like you once looked at your parents sitting in a booth.

Only he was alone, and she never came. You watched him deflate from your spot in the field. His excitement showed in his proud shoulders, and a smile which screamed I DID IT! had been reduced to a lonely figure, hunched and infatuated by an empty chair. How selfish and inconsiderate of her, you thought.

You saw him stand up and grab a bottle that was in front of him by its neck. He looked at you through the window, and you sat up and waved as he waved to you. He left the pub, giving up on his first date and decided to sit with you.

"Maybe next time," he said. You should remember how that made you smile. How he didn't give excuses and say, "maybe she got the days mixed up, or got stuck in traffic, or how he should have texted her to reconfirm an hour before."

He just shrugged, holding a bottle of wine and said maybe next time.

Because he knows there are better things to do with youth than worry about love. It should be spent with friends in a field, drinking your favourite wine and watching a storm pass over the sea.

He sat beside you with his bottle of Merlot and said

"It was for her, but now it's for us!"

Do you remember how this made you feel? It was as if love itself had climbed into your throat and left you speechless and red-faced. You knew exactly what he meant by it, but it was nice to forget about the context for a moment and pretend that the wine was always for you. To him, it was a hangout, but to you, it was your first date. He cracked open the bottle and took the first swig before passing it to you. It smelled of black cherries and was the colour of rubies. I hope you can remember how it tasted, but if not, it tasted like the colour red and the evening. I'm sure with closed eyes and a sip of that same Merlot, you could mistake the hospital room for a field and your bed sheets for blades of grass and the pillows for the ghost of him, his shoulder against yours. Warm. Take a second, and close your eyes.

The waves were roaring behind you, and the sea breeze that blew through the field brought relief from the hot summer air. You took one final sip from the Merlot bottle, which was now warm, and handed it back to him. He drank the last of it and smiled.

You told him to close his eyes, and to your surprise, there was no hesitation. He did it and kept them closed for a while. You realized that at this moment, you could look at him with all your envy and longing without the worry of him seeing. You admired the way his collar bone and jaw rested under his skin and the way his lips were tinted red from wine.

"can I open them?" He asked

You didn't respond; you just looked at how his hair curled just above his eyes and rested shaggily around his ears. He waited a moment to open his eyes, and when he did, he looked at you and saw you were picking at the grass.

"What did you do," he asked innocently, and you just shrugged and said: "nothing, my eyes were closed too."

At that moment, he laid back into the grass and pulled out his phone. This night, unlike the night we met and drank Ribena instead of wine, the sky was clear, and the occasional star was bleeding through a darkened blue, and the moon was full. He pulled out his phone and stretched his arms upwards, with its camera aimed at the moon. All you could see was the contour of his arms. Tanned. His sleeves fell back over his shoulders, revealing toned muscle. He took the picture and scuffed at it.

"it's incredibly small but undoubtedly beautiful," he leaned in close to show you the picture, and you agreed. It looked so big and bright in the sky, but in the photo, it was no different than the stars.

I wonder, as I write this with a glass of Merlot, yes, THE glass of Merlot, how you haven't talked to him in years, and If he'll ever visit you or get the chance to read this. I'm not so scared of him finding out because I'm sure by then, this letter will just be a story to me, and I'll read this and not even notice it as my own memory. But at least having it written down and out of my head which is bound to rot, means that some parts of me will live a little longer. For as long as ink can last on paper, and paper can hold itself together.

---

Some closing thoughts:

It scares me to think of how much our memory can be made up of false moments. I would like to believe that all of this happened and that it was as I remember it. Still, Alzheimer's doesn't leave you much to remember, and the little you can isn't very reputable. But I'm sure, if It were my way, I'd have it the other way around. Where he was in love with you. Because what's the point in making up the pain of loving someone?

PS. There may be a time when you are reading this and think it belongs to someone else. That this is a note, you found, left behind by some guy in the hospital room before you. But I want you to realize this if you wondered why you had a tear in your eye and trust that it feels so familiar;

You may not remember it, and maybe that makes you sad, but try and be happy that it's something that is yours to remember, and yours to forget, that it all happened to you; A life. Nothing grand, but rich with little beauties.

How is it something so ugly can be so damn beautiful? he once asked.

Now that you've lived, you wish you could tell him about the pub and how the rule was made up — the lightning and how it flickered like a loose bulb. You wish you could tell him about your parents, the field, the people you became, and how the Ribena you once drank will become wine. Your first date. And finally, how a snake sheds its skin when it doesn't fit them anymore. They accept it as a part of living, to leave a part of themselves behind, a ghost, to continue on.

Here was a part of you.

Every time you read this, if you remember it all, write at the bottom of this letter yes or no.

Sincerely,

You