There were some blue eyes involved that could so easily turn a seacoloured grey and sometimes one could even glimpse the storm behind them. It must have been a very silent storm, a very polite one, only breaking free when something went horribly wrong.
There were some minimalistic gestures stressing the alien feeling. But there were also some grand gestures, lips ghosting my skin, cultural norms sinking in. Deeper than the skin.
I remember fainting straight away like one of the ladies in the charming novels of the 18th century when they told me, turning white and all wobbly. And I remember collapsing on the bed fighting the fit of giggles while resisting the urge to slam my head to the very solid looking doorframe. Some mermaid must have thought this funny. I remember saying flatly that I wouldn't attend this dinner and then thinking better of it. How would it look, your dinner partner leaving you out in the rain. But you know, thirteen sitting down to dinner never results in something too good. And we were always thirteen when I was involved.
I remember you greeting me with that shy smile of yours but my head was too fuzzy to think of what you actually said. Maybe nothing. But I can remember talking to you for several hours and I guess we both cursed the fact that these dinners always lasted a whole evening. You must have been dead tired. And just as nervous and insecure as I was then. This was one of the many moments I feverishly wished myself to be much older or just bolder. But then again, no. Older and bolder would have meant you never realising that I fled every social and loud gathering in order to catch the breeze and a whiff of the sea to which I'm still addicted.
When the waves got too rough I took refuge in the library and your rounds on deck always brought you past. Some evenings I would hide behind a thick book, pretending not to see you peeking in and checking that everything was fine. At others I was brave enough to manage a weak smile which you returned, sometimes with your rumblingly soft voice bidding me a good evening. In a Jane Austen novel, we'd be married by now. In reality I never finished that one book and you must have noticed that I carried around the same volume for four weeks straight.
In one of the lovely romances, we'd have our happily ever after. In reality, we managed to not act too strange for onlookers. Not exactly being the black sheep but close to it you were prone to be wondered at. Never managing two words in a row in a language you didn't speak, actually talking to me was surely not the most normal thing to do. Technically, speaking is overrated. Looks and smiles were enough. Whenever I caught your tender I relished in your grip on my arm and this protectiveness of yours.
Sometimes I think that one night on deck with you would have cleared all my lightheadedness and would have made you understand that there is something which I still can't communicate to you. What should I have said to you? That I love you. True as this may be, this would have led to some fantastic misunderstandings and an uncomfortable feeling in the back of my head. There's no way of telling you that simple truth in a simple way but I'm still thinking about the way Jane Austen would have solved that problem.
Several years later, I know how to handle certain situations. I can actually survive dinner parties and being the one doing the talking. I'm still not the one to stay for the dance but take a stroll over deck or go to the library. And I wouldn't engage you in some polite chit-chat but just leave you doing your job but greet your round and the quick check with a broad and open smile. But trust me, if we meet again, you will find me soaring into your arms because I still remember the protectiveness of yours. I know you will catch me and I guess we will both laugh. Which will indeed be a novelty.