Mine

The subway from Bank smelled like Friday night – a mixture of alcohol, piss and tube engine waste. I was not complaining. I did not care. I loved it. I was with him. What’s there to be afraid of? Daniel was next to me, with our hands interlock. As we walked through the faded white porcelain ceramic wall, the other late Thursday commuters were just dots. We reached the end of the tunnel and ended up in front of the Bank of England. Maybe majestic was the right word to explain what stood before me. It represented lavish culture and enunciate wealth, prosperity almost to the sense that it made me sick. The pillar stood tall with the perfect amount of dimmed lighting on the ceiling and occasional car’s headlights passing by beaming just about the essence of London, gloriously. Just a little across the street, there was a statue in front of a posh restaurant that I would not even dared to enter wearing ripped black stocking and knitted cardigan, not to mention wet red converse from the puddle I accidentally got into next to the sidewalk in Shoreditch. I looked around, then finally at Daniel that seemed rather laid back seeing what’s in front of us. He took his eyes off the statue and returned to mine, “It’s beautiful.” I was not trying to whisper, but my voice sounded smitten and probably with slightly hazy eyes. His thumb stroke the palm of my hand that still in his and replied, “I know.” He leaned forward and kissed me. I could feel London was immersing in me, in his soft lips, in the background noise of London’s traffic. I felt like I was in a love-drunk fiction book. That moment was very intimate almost I feel I did not want to share it with anybody else. It was mine. It was not even his. Everything was just mine.

But then if I was part of a book, I was afraid there might be a plot twist in the next chapter.

I want the story to end here, where everything is almost perfect.