Susan.
(I was not what she was looking for.)
Fireworks.
I’ve always been fond of them, but tonight, even though the sky is overcast with their eager explosions and there’s noise everywhere, the world is muted.
(That name is scorched into my mind. At odd times of the day, I find it escaping my lips like a breath, like a soft hiss. Susan.)
I quite remember how it all started. A meeting in Diagon Alley. Two former members of the DA who knew each other by face, but had never had a chance to really speak. Her hands brushed against mine when we were in a bookstore. When recognition hit, she was the first to call me by name; I was the one who stumbled. I nearly said Hannah.
Not any longer. I’ll always remember her name.
She congratulated me for getting into Montrose Magpies. I wanted to tell her I was just a reserve, that my former teammates were doing better than me, that I was studying on the side because I wanted a job in the Ministry, but she had disappeared, leaving me bemused by how well she knew me.
I met her again at this New Year’s Eve party months ago, where the old DA members had decided to gather. She had come with Finch-Fletchley, who was organising the event, but the guy was dancing with another girl. I didn’t like to see her standing alone by the punch bowl. So, I walked up to her and asked her how she was.
–You aren’t a reserve player anymore,†she said, smiling. –Congratulations.â€
I waved it off. –Tell me about you,†I demanded.
She was Susan, of course, currently working in the Department for International Magical Co-operation, though she wanted to move to something else later on. She dived into her tale - she was nervous, perhaps - and I found out a whole lot more than I might have needed to know at that time, but I liked listening to her. I liked watching her speak. Her eyes were bright, her chest seemed to rise prominently, and she used her hands a lot.
I think I must have been caught staring at her chest, because she explained, –This dress is a bit too tight across the bust.â€
My reply must have been a grin and a blush; I can’t recall what it was exactly. I let her continue. She talked of so many things, so many that I had already drunk quite lot of champagne without noticing it. I offered her a glass, which she refused (she doesn’t drink). At some point, I asked her if she wanted to dance with me. Although a little taken aback at first, she agreed.
I knew fuck all about dancing, but I led, letting my hand rest on her back. Susan, Susan, Susan. Those soft dark brown curls, that dark blue dress which was –too tight across the bustâ€, those wonderful large violet eyes with the heavy heavy lashes, that laughter which sprang from her suddenly but quite pleasantly as we both found out I was leading rather well, twirling her around and pulling her towards me, our body colliding with an audible thud despite the loud music.
The alcohol had inspired some audacity in me, for I found myself asking her if I could drop her home.
–On your broomstick?†she asked, breaking into a giggle. She appeared so happy. She was flushed with the exertion, a wee bit sweaty. Her cheeks were red. She was so full of energy I worried she might burst.
–How silly,†I said. I was hiccupping a little. –Us magical people can’t really drop people to their homes unless we owned a bloody flying horse.â€
–An Abraxan,†she suggested. –Or a Thestral.â€
–Whatever. Hey - I think I’m a little tipsy.â€
–Maybe I ought to take you home.â€
–Please do.â€
She nodded, and then frowned. –I don’t know where you live. Do any of your friends do?â€
I looked around the place and saw George with Angelina and Lee with some girl I didn’t recognise. –My friends are busy,†I murmured. –But you know what, it’s no use asking them. I just moved into this new place and haven’t invited them over yet.â€
–Okay,†she said, –I’ll just take you to my place then.â€
We said our goodbyes to the partiers and Apparated to her flat. I got clumsy; I caused her to lose balance by tripping on my wayward feet, and then we were falling to the ground in a tangle.
–Ow. Ow. Ow.â€
She was moaning right into my ears, and rather softly so. It was a combination of that, the smell of her hair (like a bunch of fresh picked roses), the presence of her body underneath mine, and my lips accidentally running along her jaw as I struggled to get up. I stared into her eyes for what felt like hours but was in reality ten seconds at best, and then my lips landed on hers.
I kissed her.
I still cannot forget that moment of abject insanity and absolute pleasure. She responded, you see. I can’t figure out if she was surprised, or thrilled, or lonely, or horny, but she kissed me right back, sending me into a frenzy. My hands were all over her. The need to touch every single inch of her skin was so urgent, so potent that I couldn’t hear her telling me to stop. She had to push my face away.
–You’re drunk,†she said simply.
I asked her, –And you?â€
She wouldn’t meet my eyes. Of all the things she could have said at that juncture, what came out of her mouth was, –This is wrong.â€
I froze. Then I stood up and left. As I had reached my bed without Splinching myself, I honestly am worried I wasn’t as inebriated as either of us had thought. I flung off my dress and went to sleep. The next morning, there was this strange, heavy weight on my shoulders. The right thing would have been to apologise to her, but I didn’t. Trying not to think too much about it, I jumped off the bed for a hot shower.
(She had hair that smelled like a bunch of fresh-picked roses.)
It was the stupid roses that made me do it.
I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind. I’d known I liked girls since my Hogwarts days. There were no rumours about me at school, unlike Angelina who had hit it off with Fred during the Yule Ball, or Rebecca, or Drew. They had begun to fear I was asexual, so I had fun with Lee for a while, just to stave off the questions. I was relieved to leave Hogwarts.
This is me digressing, but I thought a bit of history would be nice before I explain my growing obsession with Susan. Just so you aren’t confused. Just so you don’t think I was confused. I liked her, I bloody well knew it, and I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind.
One month from that fateful night, we won a match against the Tutshill Tornadoes. Brenda Jenkins, one of our publicists, who had been trying to get into my knickers for a few months, gave me a bouquet of red roses. As soon as the scent had shot up my nose, I was transported back to the dimly lit flat, right into the full, kissable lips of Susan. I must have been wearing an odd expression on my face, lost in a bittersweet memory amidst a yelling crowd, because Brenda tapped me on the shoulder and said, –Are you okay? I hope you aren’t allergic to roses.â€
–Huh?â€
–You look … pained.â€
–I am not allergic to roses, no …†I trailed off as I grappled with the sudden, overwhelming urge to do something I had been trying so hard not to do. –Brenda,†I said, –where did you get this?â€
–There’s a florist just down the road.†She looked worried. –Why? Isn’t it pretty enough?â€
–It’s very pretty,†I assured her as I thrust the bouquet back into her hands, –but they’re wasted on me. See you!â€
The problem with being the kind of person I am is that I’m ignorant about the laws of wooing - I had never cared for it - so I didn’t quite know the difference between enough and excessive. I bought three bouquets of roses, lugged them home, then wrote a letter that contained two lines: Sorry about that night. Can we meet up sometime? After that, I borrowed owls from my landlady (she has around six, lonely woman), and delivered them to Susan Bones. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I gathered a week’s worth of unopened Prophet and started reading them.
None of the three owls had a reply tied to their puny legs when they returned.
(She was: belted mauve robes, and hair tied in a crooked ponytail that dropped from the left shoulder.)
It was right after I’d shot the Quaffle past Huxley, the Keeper, when I felt the back of my neck tingle. I had just flown near the seats, just seen a familiar face, one that was reassembling in my mind as quickly as I had sped by it. Yes, Susan was there, watching.
I couldn’t concentrate on the game; I missed the Quaffle thrice. I was half-scared, half-excited. You could squeeze in a little bit of irritation there somewhere. It was a relief when practice ended and I pushed my broom in the direction of her. She was wringing her hands when I got off the broom.
–I was away,†she began. –I saw your letter this morning.â€
–I see.â€
–Can we …†A slight hesitation. I raised my eyebrows. –Can we talk?†she finished.
–Let me get changed.â€
She thanked me for the roses; her landlord had preserved them by casting multiple Refreshing Charms over the previous three weeks. I shrugged it off, saying that it was nothing, that I truly felt sorry. I knew enough not to say I chose roses because they reminded me of her hair (which smelled of roses on that afternoon, too).
–I’m not angry with you,†she mumbled. –I am to blame, too.â€
There was that dreaded word. Blame. I was hoping for something else. For example, enjoy.
–If we’re deciding who’s to blame, Susan,†I began. Then I stopped because I had said her name aloud for the first time. It felt odd in my mouth, like something solid.
She glanced in my direction, urging me to continue.
–It was all my fault,†I said firmly, –and no, please do not try and make me feel better by joining in. Although, of course, I wouldn’t feel better either way. I was drunk, I started it. It’s as simple as that. What’s more urgent here is -â€
–I kissed you back,†she cut me off in a quiet voice.
–Are you mortified?†I asked her, after being silent for a while.
–I am mortified,†she started to say. I had already shut my eyes in despair when she added, –By how much I liked it.â€
Which didn’t solve anything. Persuaded by none other than myself (and the time of the day, the inexplicably nice weather, our being alone in a stadium, the roses spreading into the air around us, the closeness of her body to mine, and the fact that she hadn’t hexed me for what was now beginning to sound more and more like sexual assault, much to my discomfort), I cleared my throat, bypassed the wild beating of my heart and asked, –Would you like to try again and see?â€
The way that smile flickered on her lips. I wish I was poetic enough to describe it in words.
–Yes.â€
(She was a cluster of starved kisses.)
We started spending more time together. Life through Susan’s eyes was differently coloured. Although I wasn’t unhappy, you could hardly say a daily routine that consisted of some book-reading, Quidditch practice and quiet dinner was an exciting existence. Susan’s coming changed, not my routine itself, but the idea that it could be enough for anybody. Her time was always occupied. She was either gardening or cooking or knitting or reading to her landlord’s wife who was blind or helping raise fund for those who had lost much in the war. She had a full time job, too.
And she had me.
The more we kissed, the harder I fell. She was an intoxicating chaos of smells. She was rain drenched earth, chocolate pudding, cherry lip-balm, honey, old books, sun-dried clothes and roses. I was happy just being around her, watching her conduct the business of being busy, listening to her impassioned argument of how the Ministry needed to open up counselling programs for war victims who had post-traumatic depression because St. Mungo’s was already filled to the brim. I would listen with an arm around her, wondering at how one person could conceive of so many thoughts and concerns and wield them without faltering, and I would bring her face closer towards me and kiss her.
But she never let me go beyond a kiss. I waited at first, aware that she was still getting used to this. However, it was soon becoming obvious she was scared.
–We’ve been dating for a month, Susan.â€
–I know,†she would whisper, avoiding my eyes.
–Exactly what are we holding out for?â€
–I need more time.â€
–More time for what?†I flared up. –Come on, Susan. This is sex we’re talking about for Merlin’s sake.â€
–I know!†she yelled back.
–You aren’t a virgin, are you? Because I don’t care if you are.â€
Looking coldly at me, she replied, –I don’t know how my virginity would affect this either way, but no, I’m not a virgin. I shagged Ernie in greenhouse five.â€
–Did you enjoy it?†I asked her viciously. –Is that what you prefer now?â€
–No, that’s not what I meant!â€
–Bollocks!â€
Even then, I knew I was being daft, but I left her anyway.
(She was all I tasted at night inside of my mouth.)
The worst April of my life seemed to stretch on indefinitely.
To say that I was sad would not do justice to the hellish weeks that was last month. It became a chore to drag myself through the endless days, the inane hours and activities, and the dead silent nights. I tried going out with my teammates and found I couldn’t tolerate their boisterousness outside of Quidditch. I nearly slipped into Jenkins’s snare, but the thought of cheating on Susan stopped me. Technically, we weren’t over yet. Or so I told myself.
I didn’t have the courage to visit her, though. I had no idea what I’d say. I wasn’t going to apologise for blowing up because I knew I had been right and I’m a pathetic liar anyway, never having felt the need to lie much. I couldn’t fathom her lack of resolve. I felt like I was a case she had taken up, like one of those post-war traumatic patients she was always banging on about. The more I thought of it, the surer I became of the possibility that Susan pitied me.
That made me angrier, and I was just thinking of ending everything formally when this tiny owl fluttered into my bedroom one night.
I am so sorry, Alicia. I was confused. Can I see you sometime?
Thousands of replies ran across my head, but what I wrote back was this:
I love you, but if I can’t have the whole of you, I’d rather we don’t continue fooling ourselves. I’ll be at Morgana’s Field for the Victory Day fireworks. Find me only if you’re sure.
As soon as the owl disappeared, I instantly regretted it. She was not ready. There was no way she would come, and I was being churlish. Cursing my own recklessness, I reached for the Firewhisky.
(She’s in my veins, and I cannot get her out.)
It’s been an hour since I got here, avoiding people who’d recognise me because I haven’t come to mingle. And I want to be left alone.
She’s staying away, and rightly so. Although I’ll defend my honesty, I’ve just made a mess of things. Will I go and give it another stab? I probably will. Will I do it even if I know it won’t work? Definitely. But I’m also acutely aware that I can’t force her to love and want me the way I love and want her. If it must succeed, she has to make the move now.
But you see the kind of idiocy love inspires? You have to look no further than me. I cannot keep myself from dreaming that somehow, somehow she’ll be here. It’s too easy to give into the weakness of hoping. It’s so easy that I see her slipping between passers-by, and do a double-take once in a while, only to realise my eyes are playing tricks on me. Defeated, I watch the fireworks one last time and let their light fill up my vision so that I don’t have to distinguish human faces anymore.
When I look down, however, there is this girl standing in front of me, and the fireworks are imprinted on her features with such clarity that she’s all but glimpses of sunlight. She approaches me, and her mouth moves to form a word I truly don’t want to hear because she truly doesn’t have to say it. To stop her, I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind.
–I think those are from George’s shop.â€
She glances at the fireworks, and then waits. I say nothing more, preferring to take her hand.