on the cusp of love in almaty
or: the magical mountain meet-cute that actually happened
Almaty is an objectively cool city but the looming mountains framed by perfect sidewalks make me want to cry my eyes out. One day when I am not fevered with lovesick I would like to come back and enjoy this city, but for now it is too organised, too happy, the cafes too fancy, the dogs too small, the tea not black enough, the pathways too even, the edges of cars too soft and round.
The day he left we spent the afternoon lying in a single bunk-bed, afternoon rays like zebra stripes upon our entwined limbs. It was the cuddle of all cuddles, the final cuddle of a thousand cuddles. It was a furious mission in memorisation: remember the shape of the notches of a spine, the calluses of his palm against my ribcage, the silk of his nape, the grat-grat sound of head scratches, the smell of grocery store bar soap on his body, his hands pressing purple birthday flowers into a Lonely Planet travel guide. Remember, remember!
In the taxi to the airport I told him my three favourite moments of our time together: river-laundry in the Fann mountains, poring over a map in a bar planning for our Ak-Suu hike, the day we crossed two passes in the Alay mountains. Without missing a beat, he listed his: lying on the big rock overlooking Gazza when we were strangers teetering on the edge of familiarity, the same planning-day I mentioned, and when we had two bottles of wine on the empty shore of Issyk-Kul.
The day he left I understood object permanence. Normally, I am like a dog: out of sight, out of mind. Normally, I only know how to exist in the present. I excel in moving on and letting go, relishing in the transience I create.
But I just miss him so much. I feel like we were on the cusp of love but were snatched away before roots could take hold. Like we could almost taste it. I have never been in love before, but I think it must be it if I don’t like giving massages, but now would spend hours moving fingertips against his skull to hear that hum of content. It must be, when I see him in the morning light and wonder if any possible medium can capture how his smile lines spread across the topography of his face, for I would study those contour intervals forever. It must be, if rivers swell when he lifts my hair to press a kiss onto the back of my neck. It must be, if we poke out a solitary hand from our sleeping bags to grasp each other’s because it is too cold for anything else. It must be, if I feel an unbearable lightness in the lacuna of my soul, folding over itself, for nothing more than the way his hair curls at the ends or the gentleness in how he cuts parsley with an Opinel knife.
The first time we parted ways in Uzbekistan, we didn't know how the hell to act. The second time we part ways in Almaty’s airport, there is no space between us. I crush my head into the hollow of his chest, trying to carve a haven here, in this cradle of life. I don’t know when we will meet again, but it feels like until we do all the mountain ranges of the world will be held in abeyance, shifting slightly out of place. And when we reunite I think they will open up like arms and move to welcome us home.