Head Over Flats - Alistair

I fell in love with Alistair on a Friday. I’d known him for years; there subsisted an easy affection between us, almost familial in its simplicity and comfort. When we first met, Alistair was an adorably feckless charmer with easy grace, a slight accent, and eyes the colour of a glacier-fed river. In the long, busy years of our friendship, he had developed a passion for his work, a strong and simple sense of self and an appreciation for me that I will never truly understand.

We were an odd pair. Alistair was deeply creative and philosophical, with an earthy sensibility and capable hands. I was practical and inhibited, with a nervous laugh and chipped nail polish. We had nicknames and inside jokes, I was on a first name basis with his mother and my (married) older sister always referred to him as "the Scottish dreamboat" to my continued bemusement.

That Friday we were talking and drinking on the patio. The last clear, slanted rays of autumn sunshine were dancing around us. He stood and adjusted the collar of his shirt. His eyes smiled at me first, lighting up with a witticism that followed in the smooth, deep susurrations of his speech. By the time the smile found its way to his lips, I was in love. He walked away to get us another round of whiskey and I tried to talk myself out of it. Too late.

"But look-he flicks his hand to the back of his neck. For such a gesture one falls hopelessly in love for a lifetime." (Virginia Woolf)