by Maia Wheeler
Same times, same places and the abundance of new faces. All parties start and end the same. Sober kids getting spun off their tops until a burst of laughing flame arises—mistakes that have consequences, but won’t be noticed until later.
One look, one fall, one love, but from the other side of the room. She. The one free as a bird, ready to soar, wasn’t afraid to be herself, she was singing and dancing holding the hand of Georgia. Georgia showed nervousness as she danced, but Frida encouraged her to be free.
Frida left an imprint on my heart with full force that night. Like a forceful hit of a bus to a body, which turned into a passionate wanted love affair. She seemed different from the rest. The fake worth, the popularity that was wanted, the replication of each all being the same. She wasn’t like that. She had beauty in her soul reflecting on the outside. Being impaled by an arrow from cupid, was what it felt like that night.
That night, unwanted boys trying to be men asking for a hand, her hand to dance. She refused to take part in such a restricted activity when she wanted to be free. I wanted to know more. I’d heard her name once or twice before, being told I’d love who she is by a couple of friends of mine. They weren’t wrong. She was wild, young and free-willed, not willing to let anything stop her.
Diego, Diego, Diego, Lost in my thoughts over this girl, I barely heard Jackson calling out my name. Diego María Rivera, I slowly turned my head to the side where the voices were heard. It was an angel, her angel. She was standing there next to Jackson. My mouth dry, my knees weakening, she was standing in front of me. Her beauty even more beautiful up close than far aware. So lost in my own thoughts all over the place like Jackson’s paintings, I didn’t even notice her move away from the spot she was standing.
Diego this is Frida. Frida this is Diego. Her hand coming forward to shake mine. Two hands meeting like a sailor docking her ship. My hand reaching out to meet hers. A gentle shake, filled with excitement. It felt new but familiar.
All I wanted was to know this girl. Who exactly was she?
The same girl hung around her, tied to the hip, she never left her side. The same girl she came with. They acted like friends, but they were more familiar with each other. The way she looked at Georgia was from heart to soul, soul to heart. Beautiful together but never more beautiful than the grace Frida carried on her shoulders. I had never seen one person look at another person more dearly, kissing the flowers of affection towards each other.
Confusion took over the only part of my brain that wasn’t still processing that I might have fallen in love with a woman I could never be in love with for long since her sexuality would dictate her non existent love for me. Love isn’t one-sided. Could one person love, but the other couldn’t give love back?
I had fallen in love with the most beautiful woman alive and she couldn’t give that back to me. My heart raced a million beats within the time of the thought of love never being existent. Would love make me hold on for dear life and then hit me in the head?
Love is the hardest when it's not given back to you. Frida was my first love and wasn’t going to be my last, but was going to be the most memorable.