Jemima

I sighed and watched another plane fly across the midnight sky.

There was no use trying to wish on it; it wasn’t the shooting star which I was dreaming of; it wasn’t the twinkling eyes of Johnathon, my one true love.

How I hate that fact that love always has to let fate intervene.  I was un imbécile! He was my professeur for goodness’ sake; there was never going to be a chance of our affections blooming into anything stronger.

Yet, why did my heart burn with this infection? Why did it urge me to find Johnathon? To run after him, and beg him to reconsider?

I could have been everything to him; we could have been great. So why did he just walk away?

I rubbed my forehead again, and tried to coax myself to sleep but, as always, my mind was wide awake and swarming with thoughts. The night air was almost chilling my bones, but, I guessed, that’s what happens when you decide to put on a tight-fitting skirt, a strappy top and a small leather bomber jacket before you come up there. Not a great idea. I stretched out my long thin legs across the concrete and leant back on my palms so that it felt like I was sitting in a chair. That was the easiest way to gaze at the sky, with its beautiful patterns of light that filtered up from the city below, combined with the silver specks of far-off distant suns. Some may have called it wonderful, but, that night, I called it miserable.

That was how my life had been: miserable. And if there was anyway to change it, I probably would have jumped at the chance, just not if it involved never meeting Johnathon. I would never let him go!

Lying down, I kissed the tips of my middle and index fingers on the right hand and pointed them upwards to the stars, wishing; they were a miniature tower from the roof of my Paris flat.

I will always love you, JDC.

The End

97 comments about this exercise Feed