Week 40 — The Morning After

Week 40/52

[Only twelve weeks until this project is over! Oh God, I can't even think about that.]

I have an issue with blurry shots — if you've followed my 365, you'll know that if I have a properly focused shot and a blurry one, I'll probably go with the blurry. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I'm shortsighted and refuse to wear glasses, so for me the world is a little bit blurry. Or maybe it's because I think it's more dramatic. I don't know. But I tend to choose the blur. And I think this is the first time, or one of the few that I've done it in my 52 Weeks. There are a few outtakes in the comments, and among them are the focused photos. You can check them out there.

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The sun is harsh, hot, scalding. It hits you like a million knives to the front of your cranium and the pain reaches your eyes, your nose, your forehead. The car. You're still in the car, your clothes disheveled, your fingers dirty with the remains of the eyeliner and mascara. You must have scratched your eyes while you was asleep.

There's no walk of shame — you're free, you're not in a relationship and you can do what you please.

(Haven't you always? Even when you were with him, even when you were in a serious relationship, haven't you always done whatever the hell you want?)

There's a bitterness in the morning sun, a sudden awakening that you don't welcome. How come everything seems that much more violent, much more judgmental in the light of morning? Isn't the night supposed to be the scary one, the one to avoid? No — the morning is much more unforgiving.

And then you remember, the way his hands touched you, the way he pushed you against the wall of the ballroom, the way you kissed and moaned and ended up in a tangled mess of limbs in the back of your limo. It was cold, plain old sex — the kind that makes you forget you even exist. The kind that makes you forget that encounter, his eyes on yours when he crosses the room, a young woman hanging from his arm. The kind that makes you forget you ever loved him — but not really, because that's just not something you can let go of.

Because he found you alone in the only empty room in the building and his arm snaked around your waist. Because his mouth found your ear as you stared at each other's reflection, and because his words made it all come back.

(We're not over, we'll never be over. Because you're mine and I'm yours and this will never end, we'll always come back)

So you did what you knew how to do and found the closest boy-toy to forget him with.

You just didn't expect the morning to hit you so furiously.

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[Of course, my sleazy VW Golf isn't a limo. But we can all pretend, right?]