Ladybird
I can still remember the day so clearly.
The fragrance of marijuana hanging heavy in the air & the taste of cream soda on his pouty lips. Aching thighs from our bike ride, soothed by tender kisses. Rays of sunlight stroking every inch of my skin, following the shimmering map of my body.
We’ve escaped to his father’s countryside home for the weekend, forgetting our wild student life in the city for a few days. We want to make the most of the summer and the ever-so-sweet honeymoon stage we’d found ourselves in.
K & I have been together for about six months, but we have been friends for years. We met for the first time as teenagers, both of us frequenting our local all-age gigs. We were from different sides of London. He comes from a middle-class East End family made up of well-off philosophers & writers. I was the opposite, a West London working-class girl, my dad a builder and my mum a nanny. We might have never met if we hadn’t both shared a love for alternative music and teenage rebellion.
But we did, and from the start, we’d always been fond of each other. I thought he was gorgeous, wearing thin, wiry glasses that framed his speckled brown eyes, stature tall, skin honey-kissed. I loved his messy brown hair, his cheeky smile, and his silly sense of humor.
On this particular hazy summer day, we ventured off in search of nothing but the perfect spot to fall even more in love with one another.
At least, that’s what we tell ourselves. We’re also escaping what’s becoming an awkward stay with his father. I don’t fit into his father’s academic ideals and feel increasingly out of place—I’m not adept at philosophical debates for fun over a family dinner. My family dinners have been more like watching TV with dinner on my lap, my brother next to me as our parents bicker in the next room.
At K’s father’s place the night before, I'd headed to bed early, feigning that the expensive red wine had given me a headache. In truth, I couldn’t listen to their pseudo-intellectual conversation about nothing of real importance. The realization had begun creeping up on me that perhaps we weren’t as perfect for each other as we initially believed.
But today, I decided to enjoy the countryside and our young love.
K has an old but faithful bike, painted a pistachio green, chipping off in some places. We share the bike, him at the front, me behind him with hands wrapped around his waist, my head nuzzled against his back to inhale his soft scent of sunscreen and burnt wood. As we ride, my hazel blonde hair blows behind me. I hum the tune to our favorite Nancy & Lee Hazlewood song, an unconscious alluding of what’s to come.
Aside from the humming, we speak of nothing of great importance. We are both intent on ignoring anything that will fail. our honeymoon love ideals. Silence feels more comfortable than accepting reality. I point out pretty flowers while he makes sure to spot any big trees we might take the opportunity to climb later.
“Look at that one, babe!” He shouts excitedly, his fingers pointed at a huge brown oak.
We ride deep into the countryside until we find a meadow decorated with thousands of wildflowers in pastel hues of pink, blue, orange, purples, and yellow. Long, dry grass waves at us, beckoning us to lay down our cliche gingham blanket and cuddle up between their sun-soaked stems.
As I sit down, I feel his gaze taking me in. My hair falls around my shoulders slightly glistening with a glaze of sweat after our bike ride. The simple white cotton sundress I wore bunches up around my thighs as I sit down, and I notice his eyes fall on them. With a cheeky smile on my face, my blue eyes gaze back at him, wearing denim dungarees and a plain striped t-shirt underneath.
He settles down next to me and swings one of his freckled, sun-kissed arms around my shoulders, while the other reaches into his rear jean pocket, gesturing toward me, his fingers wound into a fist to hide the treasure in his palm.
I laugh as I unfold his hand, revealing a perfectly rolled joint; the floral smell feels perfect in nature. I take it from him and place it between my lips. He brings his lighter to the joint, setting it alight with a wicked smile that sends my thighs up in flames.
I inhale deeply, delighting in the extra warmth it brings my body and mind. I pass it over to him after, enjoying this shared moment.
“How is it?” He asks.
“Try it for yourself!” I respond with a laugh.
“Alright bossyboots!” He responds before taking a long smoke. He puts it down and turns to me, his eyes closed, in total bliss.
“I feel so… perfectly...real.”
Although I understand what he means, these were the kind of quotes that I love to tease him for. He sees himself as a modern-day Jeff Beck, some kind of heart-aching poet, though lacking the heartache, the struggle, and the poetic talent. I suppose a small piece of me resents this about him and wants to brush past it.
Climbing onto his lap, I grab his face in my hands, him now frowning at my reaction to his ‘deep thoughts.’ “Oh...so perfectly...real!” I mimic with a giggle, pushing myself against him as I kiss his cheek gently.
As his eyes meet mine, he already knows what I want. His frown turns back to that wicked smile spreading from his lips to the twinkles in his golden eyes. He’s ready to play too.
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