The Curse of First Love

Coming home always give this certain rush of nostalgia — when things were just things, when love was just love that hit on your nerve like an anaesthetic injection sending you straight to your subconscious within the count of three. Only this took one arranged meeting. I met Charlie a couple days ago. Charlie, the tall, dark haired, good looking guy from that band whom happen to be my first love. His hair seemed longer now, it hid the colour of his eyes which was caramel-brown. And he looked older, not just that he was actually a couple years older, but much older than the last time I saw him. Regardless, he arguably, looked more attractive. That night we met again after years of absence, and I could not wait to show him that I, too, have grown older. I initiated to order a bottle of cold beer on a fervent Saturday night in the midst of crowded bar with poor air conditioning — I did not mind as long as he was there. I could feel his eyes staring at me in mere disbelief as I placed my order; probably because the last time we met I was not even legally allowed to buy an alcohol. I pulled my victory smirk, not that I know I had one, but I felt like I have just won whatever contest I was in. I was one step closer to convince him I was not the little girl that was once following him around the neighbourhood.

The night was young, he ordered another bottle of beer and a snack. I was expecting French Fries or peanuts, but the bar maid handed over a package of Indonesian spicy cheese stick like local elementary school kids used to buy in between their recess at their school canteen. There it started, the (kind of) conversation that had me fall down to the deep abyss of his everlasting charm. Conversation with him was always safe. So subtle and delicate my heart and ego would immediately swollen and sail up above the clouds like a balloon. He would say I looked thinner, he liked the way I dressed or concerned whether or not I was comfortable on my seat just because my eyes looked slightly red because of the smoke from the table next to me. He would even offer to switch place if I wanted to — I could not care less about how I look, let alone how I dressed, but the fact that he paid attention to the details of my boring eyes or my figure, pleased me. Then after an undemanding refusal, I carried on ignoring the entire universe as he filled in the space with his classic jokes, which might just sound funny to my ear. Present and future were starting to lose its matter. Therefore, I was back to square one. By the time I had to leave when the clock showed two hours passed midnight, I knew I was once again that little girl watching him playing his guitar like he was part of the seven wonders of the world.

I walked out of that bar, feeling nothing but nostalgic. He walked me outside, and gave a brief hug before we parted. Honestly, I was afraid of every touch because I was aware of his capability to drag me back to his cold arms in a jiff. I smiled, hiding what was happening in my head. He replied. Holly hell, he was even more attractive. The blue cab that brought me home, locked me in an invisible bullet-proof time vessel, as I stared blankly to the window watching Jakarta's best moment of tranquility passing by. In my head, I watched how it began and died respectively. I remember the reason why I fell in the first place on every blink, smile, joke, hit on the arm and conversation I had with him which got me thinking for a solid two seconds maybe I never stopped loving him. But then again, isn't that the thing about first love, so pure it is cursed to stay beautiful, forever? A millisecond after, I shook my head as I also remember the reason why I got out at the end. My blue cab stopped in front of my apartment lobby marking the end of the trip down memory lane. The present stood before me, softly whispered, 'Hey, you're home.'