Slips

The first day of college feels like a punch in the stomach - unexpected, unprepared for. My throat dry from weeks spent in a drunken haze, eyes wincing in the strange September sunlight, even with my aviators on. I walk through the bustling streets of early morning London, teeth chewing at my chapped lips. I stand at the pedestrian crossing, close my eyes, breathe in the petrol-infused air, and let my mind mill over the images of my Summer. Her thin body in his arms, sleeping contentedly after a night of mild substance abuse; his eyes as he invites me upstairs; her bare skin, perspiration making it glisten in the moonlight. A smile plays across my lips then, as my mind is prompted by the memory of that first night on the tartan blanket, to think of the many hours since that have been spent similarly. The traffic lights turn red, and I follow as my fellow commuters cross the road. As the mellow sounds of Maroon 5 infiltrate my ears, my thoughts drift to a week ago, my abrupt revelation, and her succinct, demeaning response: "you don't know what love is." I smile as I remember my frank rationale, "neither of us do."
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn my head to find her fresh face smiling at me. She slips her hand into mine, and we walk up to the gates of the glass sixth-form building. Feeling the warmth of her skin on mine, I am filled with conviction in the belief that, perhaps nobody knows what love is, but it can't hurt to try and find out.