Embrace & Death

They lied on the soft grass, the aroma of moisture, earth and sadness impregnating the crisp air around them, the dew becoming one with their skin as they grazed their fingers across the ground. They looked up at the sky, absorbing the view: this black blanket insulating the world from the discomforts of the unknown, and this erratic scatter of lights, some brighter than others, made them feel very small and vulnerable.
Which was quite fortunate as their lives would soon no longer have any significance.
The boy’s hand searched for the girl’s, lacing his fingers into the gaps of the girl’s hand, relishing in the cold though unmistakably human touch of her skin. The night was still and calm, lethargic almost, as if time had decided to take a breather and hide away in a dark cave, its passage an unnoticeable blur. The boy turned his head to look at the girl: the moonlight shone against her pale skin, reflecting against the three tears suddenly present on her cheek.
“Why do you cry? And why are your tears so silent?” He asks, wiping away the droplets of salt water from her face, with a touch gentler than the caress of a sweet spring wind.
The girl chuckles and continues her distant aimless gaze into the night sky.
“I haven’t decided yet. Too many things.”
To us this response seems frustratingly vague and confusing, though it made complete and utter sense to the boy. He nodded and returned to his pondering of the stars. He tightened his hold of the girl’s hand, she responded and tightened hers.
She began to edge closer towards him, her body aching with each move as the effort was almost excruciating. Perhaps this sudden absence of time had slowed her movements, had added additional weight to each thought, to each push and pull of her melancholy organism. She could feel the warmth emanating from his still, contemplative body, and she yearned for it.
He felt her approach him, the sound of her movements combined with the delicate crunch of the grass. He did not know how to respond, he thought about taking her into his arms, as most romantic scenarios would dictate, he thought about pushing her away, and he also thought about leaving her to continue her gradual trajectory towards him. He decided to settle for the third option, and waited.
She cautiously placed her head on his chest, searching for the sound of his heartbeat and the indolent rise and drop of his strong body. She hesitantly placed a hand on this very same chest, and moulded her body into his. He waited patiently until she was comfortable and had stopped moving, then proceeded to wrap an arm around her fragile shoulders and pull her closer into him.
“Are you cold?” He asks. She shakes her head.
“Are you alright?” He asks. She shakes her head.
He stares at the sky, unsure of exactly what he is looking at. The beauty of the stars and the night sky is overrated he decided, mythologized. It does not make one feel a part of something important, in fact, its effect was more than quite contrary: against this vast stretch of nothing, he had in fact turned into nothing. His life or his death, or even this perfect moment with his arm wrapped around a sad girl, did not mean anything. Any significance he held onto to give splendour and meaning to his life disappeared into the night, its cries drowned by a non-existent wind and the passivity of time.
“Will you remember this?” She asks, her voice low and clear. He nods and places a kiss on her hair.
“I will remember this. Even when everything changes and I am no longer myself, I will remember this. Oh how warm you are.” She sits up and looks down at him, her eyes tired and resigned. He strokes her cheek, lovingly, automatically, as if it were the only action awaited for that single moment. There really was nothing else to be done or that could have been done, some powerful force had decided that the icy backs of his fingers needed to run their course across the equally as cold skin of her cheek. She leaned in and kissed him softly on his lips: he could taste apples and sadness. The kiss intensified, and soon, clothes were abandoned, limbs became one, and the still night was pierced by their combined, overwhelming warmth and cries.
As they lay naked in a breathless repose, the girl once again began to cry.
“Why are you crying?” The boy asks. She shakes her head.
They stay in the embrace, the girl’s hot tears forming wet patches on the boy’s chest. He ran his fingers through her dark hair, and watched the night go by. One tear escaped his eye, though only one.
“Why are you crying?” She asks. He shakes his head.

In the morning, the headlines for the small town whose name I shall not disclose were that a young couple of eighteen were found in the middle of a field. They were naked and bundled together so desperately that it became one of the town’s numerous folkloric myths. They were dead.