treatswords

Since my green eyes opened and saw the world for the very first time, the idea of a soulmate had its inception. It took turning fifteen for my brain to consciously understand what the longing was. I thought a constant aching was normal.

I met someone in the school hallway before graduating. His eyes sinking into my back like hooks. He was allusive, always a step ahead of me, ducking from commitment like it was a bullet. I was convinced he had to be it, the one. I wrote a paper about him in college. I was still clinging on to an old story. I used colors to describe him, white, black, orange, a lot of orange. I’d leave class smelling of citrus, paper cut on my hand stinging. I read my paper out loud to the class.

“And that was the day I lost my soulmate.” I said, looking up, cheeks burning. My professor pulled his glasses off his face and folded his arms across his chest. His voice made of silk. I waited for it to wrap around me like it usually did after sharing a piece with him.

“I loved it. All of it. Every word…well that is, until the end.”

I stared down at the page. Trying to make sense of the comment. Missing the flashing orange light in front of me.

“Losing your soulmate? From what I’ve heard from you today, actually, this entire semester, this man is not your soulmate. And I say that with utter and complete confidence.”

That stuck with me. A needle in my arm injecting me with a new color. I didn’t know it then, but that color was Brown.

It took him long enough to find me. His picture on Hinge caught my eye. A beautiful man sitting in a window frame, beer in hand, flannel sleeves rolled up, brown boots on his feet. It took a few months to cut my guard down, it had grown wild like ivy. That was the best decision I ever made. Letting him in. His brown hair, brown skin, brown eyes, his last name Brown as chocolate. My blood type used to be O+ but I’m convinced the next time I give blood the nurse will come running in, baffled, shouting, “She’s type Brown!”

I feared the butterflies of the honeymoon phase would inevitably die but they’re still there flapping around an 80-degree room, living in a luscious bushel of green, endless bowls of sweet nectar to sip from. This love is consistent, steady. It smells of musky tobacco leaves and feels like warm wool. Made of carefully cut oak, filled with smooth notes of blue jazz, neatly tied together with twine. I’m able to lift my heel without fear of eggshells staring back at me.

I read once that soulmates can be symbolized by a red string that ties them together for eternity. At first I panicked when I thought I couldn’t find his, but when I was looking for red I should have been looking for Brown. Now I see it always. Beneath his pillow, nested in his thick hair, hanging from his boot like a lace.

I’d lived ten years of my life with the power going out. I learned to have candles on hand, warm thick blankets. I never knew when one of my exe’s would walk in and flip the switch, my world turning dark. But with Cody the lights are always on, heat flowing from the baseboards. At first, I didn’t know what to do with my spare time. I was so used to the drama of working tirelessly to get the power back on. The fighting, the begging. A vicious cycle. It can feel boring at times, being in a stable and healthy relationship. But then I eat dinner beneath the dining room light and feel relief.

Finding Cody was like turning rocks over in the woods when I was a kid. Flipping them and hoping to find a shiny salamander hiding beneath. Mom flicking the porch light on, my small hands pulling the last rock before heading inside.

Dark eyes gleaming up at me, tail stretching in my sun.

Blonde hair bobbing, screaming to the sky, “Look what I found!”