You Don't Have to Stay Forever.

“Tom?” Anna asks from where she sits under a tree, resting her head on her lover’s shoulder as they both enjoy each other’s company. It was the day before the premiere of Thor: The Dark World and she was nervous of attending to it. “Tom, how long do you think we’re going to last? Honestly.”

He stares down at her, mouth agape, wondering how she can ask something like that. Finally, taking her hand in his he responds, “Forever, I suppose. Why? What do you think?”

“I think we’ll last until our love is perfect,” she says, giggling at the same time, before twisting her head so she can kiss softly the crook of his neck, earning a groan from Tom.

Anna is like that, unpredictable, like the weather across the country. How long will they continue like that? How long until they reach the top of the mountain? Look down and see that all that’s left of their love is a memory?

They stare into each other’s eyes, completely head over heels.

She giggles again; light and airy like the wind of those days. “Our love is imperfect,” she quips before rising and skipping off towards the Serpentine Lake, where the sun meets the sky and the clouds.

Tom trails after her, marvelling at his blonde-haired beauty. His young lover who has all of London set in her eyes. He watches as she runs, her hair floating down her back like golden sunshine summer in a bottle, and her loose frock is hanging from her body, barely even beginning to worship her form. Then again, Anna isn’t set on personal beauty. Isn’t set on making herself looking beautiful to anyone but herself; and to Tom but of course he is oblivious to that.

“Why’s that?” Tom asks, finally catching up with her at the edge of the lake. He is wondering, why, out of all the words in the universe, has Anna describes their love as imperfect.

Tom describes it as pure.

“Because we’re like young dumb teenagers in love!” she sings, spreading her arms wide and spinning around and around and around until the white cloudy sky and green trees are twisted together in some strange from of art. Some peculiar caricature of beauty. She falls to the ground, laughing giddily.

In some ways, Tom can get annoyed with Anna very easily. She doesn’t dance around subjects, even though she talks like she does. And she’s always so happy from one moment to the next that Tom isn’t ever sure if it’s a façade or not. But if there’s one thing he is sure of, it is that he loves Anna. Whether this is the real her or not, he loves her.

And perhaps it is, perhaps she is truly a mad and random girl, perhaps she is off-her-rocker and downright delirious, beautiful and bonkers. Maybe she is a thousand things but he loves them all.

“Lay next to me, Tom,” she coos, patting the lump of grass beside her.

Tom knows that his clothes will stain, but it is worth it to lay next to Anna and breathe in her scent and the shampoo of her hair. “Yes, Anna?”

“I love you, Tom,” she pulls him close to place another chaste kiss upon his ready lips. “I love you until that perfect, perfect day.”

And he automatically thinks of their wedding day. With her in a dress as white as their pure love, and him mouthing to her his vows of love before slipping that golden ring onto her ready finger. How very doll-like and animated her body is to Tom, the sunshine would gleam from that wedding band, he imagines.

Weddings, Tom thinks, are so very romantic. Something so very dear about being united with the one you love, forever and ever. Something is so very dear about the very celebrations and the congratulations, the rice and flowers being thrown when the doors to the chapel open. If that were Tom and Anna, he thinks, he would kiss her again on the steps just to show everyone that the beautiful bride was his.

Anna once told Tom, even though she swears she doesn’t remember that she would like to say her vows in French.

“Je ne.”
I do.

Tom decides to let slip to Anna about their perfect day, their wedding day. He wonders if she’ll let their first dance be to The Beatles or Frank Sinatra.

“Tom, our perfect day is when we leave each other,” she reminds him, grabbing his hand to plant kisses all over his knuckles.

And with how blunt and honest Anna is, Tom shouldn’t be even with her –let alone be in love with her. But he fell in love with her, and there is no stopping it. He is drowning in the sea of green that is her, trying to swim to shore against the golden tide but finding every moment in the salty sea with it.

“I’ll do it,” he tells her, ignoring her as her lips continue to graze his skin, all the way up to his wrist. “I’ll marry you.”

“And I’ll write a story about it,” Anna plays along. Neither is being serious, no matter how much Tom’s heart does yearn for those traditional things, those homely and simple things, like marriage and settling down and honeymoons to Paris. “It’ll be a marvellous story.”