Her Golden Hour

You’ve both been on two dates now. This is the third, and the windows are open, the breeze running through both your clothes. Your hands are on the wheel and her legs are on the dashboard, with her freshly pedicured nails tapping to Joeboy’s ‘Show me’. you glance at her, admiring how her black cornrows sit perfectly. You like how you both remain unchanging even when alone, the convenience you find in each other.

She matches your gaze while you turn your eyes to the road. Now, she’s moving her shoulders in sync with her hands, urging you to dance with her in between her laughter. You’re getting goosebumps again like you did the first time in that restaurant.

Again, you’re wondering how someone could live so unfiltered, pushing through life like they deserve the world and nothing less. It’s soaked into her, and it shows — the way she tells you that you’re hers as you hold hands. There’s an assurance to it because it makes you think that if you both were in a crowded room, it would still feel like it’s just the two of you, with knowing glances and no words spoken. You know she’s cooler than cool because you realise you’ve only felt close to life all this time, and not in it.

You don’t know much about her yet, but you know enough to know that shadows hold their breath when she shines. Halogens and the sun are almost no match for her. She’s the moment, and you’re just living in it.