A Spooky Girl’s Love Story
He asked if I wanted to take a walk, and I obliged. It was hot, hot, day in the deep South, but I was willing to take any reason to keep his company. He smirked, and suggested we cross the street to a nearby cemetery. The cemetery in question was one I'd passed by many times while driving through downtown, and it'd captivated me since childhood. It's a sprawling location, nearly two centuries old and sits solemnly in the middle of a bustling urban area, defiant to the rush of the world around it. In that moment, I decided that I'd loved it from afar for much too long. He was familiar with the cemetery, and had spent many hours there throughout his youth. He was willing to be my guide, and I was eager to have one.
The heat became overwhelming, and halfway through our walk, I took my shirt off, desperate to feel any sort of breeze upon my skin. I was impressed by his resolve. He and I walked to the edge of the graveyard, where there was nothing more than a patch of grass and a crumbling old headstone nestling in the shade of a couple large trees. We sought refuge underneath their leafy branches, and did our best to avoid the ants crawling over their roots. He lamented over his decision to wear a hoodie, and soon, he was shirtless as well, wearing nothing but a pair of burgundy colored jeans. I was impressed- this time, by my own resolve.
His presence was intense, almost too much to handle, but I had no urge to leave. The sexual tension was as thick as the humid Carolina air, but neither of us wavered, no one dared to "make a move". He spotted a tattoo on my back, and touched me only to inspect it, tugging gently at the straps of my sports bra. I grew weak in the knees, but kept my feelings veiled. I knew how much he'd been through, and that he needed a friend, not another lover. And honestly, I needed the same.
I noted my amusement at how elegant I found his name to be. He revealed that not only was one of his middle names Wolfe (an homage to Mozart), but that he was wearing underwear with a wolf's face on them. He smirked and asked if I'd like to see them. My immediate thought was "Oh good god, yes", but I tried to guise my interest with a very cooly spoken "Sure, why not?" He unbuttoned his (rather tight) burgundy jeans to reveal boxer shorts with the visage of a determined looking wolf printed on the front. With his pants around his ankles, he looked up at me and commented that he didn't usually wear underwear, but felt the need to put that specific pair on that morning. I reluctantly divulged that wolves meant a lot to me. He asked why, and I began to stumble over my words.
Strange as it may seem, I find wolves to be symbolic of love and life-long partnership. And when I moved back to my hometown, I saw them everywhere: in my dreams, on clothing, in artwork, the list goes on. For months, I had a feeling that love was coming for me soon, but was making an active effort not to lose my head over the possibility even though the night before, as he and I were exchanging messages, I wondered out loud if it was possible to fall in love with someone based on a conversation. I'd had a lingering interest in him (much to his surprise) even before I moved back home, and had tried not to give too much thought to the matter. But as the printed yellow eyes of the subject of my dreams stared brazenly at me from just feet away, I knew I could not deny what was stirring inside of me. I stood there, in the cemetery I'd always wanted to see, face to face with my emotions, forced to acknowledge the mysterious workings of the universe, across from a handsome young man waiting expectantly for his curiosity to be satisfied. In that moment, it felt like a million different paths in my life had been illuminated and were beginning to converge. I knew that I was falling in love.
I tried to dance around my connection to wolves, using words like "fierce" and "determined", but quickly caved and revealed my dreams to him. He absorbed the knowledge, and we spoke briefly on the mating patterns of wolves. He pulled his pants up and we headed back to the apartment building I'd met him at. After about four hours together (I'd only intended to be there for 15 minutes), we said our goodbyes. I took note of the heart spray-painted on the dumpster near my car, and smirked. It seemed like a good omen. I still have a picture of it in my phone.
We've spent much more time in that cemetery since that day, although it's been less frequent now that we are so deep into our lives together. But the memory remains a constant for us, and we often find ourselves reflecting on that day when we think about how far we've come. These days, when I pass the cemetery, I'm no longer filled with longing. I'm filled with feelings of love and wonder, amazed at the funny ways life can play out and how beautiful things can be if you choose not to fight the tide.