Boba, Winter and Ex Lovers
Walked around town, looking for anything new to scribble down in my notes app because the headphones my mother bought me for Christmas have already stopped working. Too ashamed to tell her or buy new ones, so I suppose I’ll be headphone-less for a while now. Crossed by the street that houses the only good Boba tea shop in this goddamn, damp city. Considered going in and treating myself to some since it’s been a while, but remembered it’s Winter, so I can’t. Can’t drink Boba in the Winter.
Read somewhere this week how nostalgia is a privilege, to yearn for your own memories. Nostalgia is the reason I can’t drink Boba in Winter. Spring and Summer are fine, reminds me of [Redacted] and our little Boba shop on the corner of some shitty street in the Capital. Out of sight of our clock tower. [Redacted 2] and I went there a few times as well, but I always associate Boba, Spring and purer times with [Redacted].
Nostalgia hits harder as the Winter madness sets in. Cold creeping into my bones, rain soaking my skin until I am left as nothing but shivering, soaked meat and bones. Winter always reminds me of my ex-lover. Which doesn’t make any sense considering we didn’t get together in Winter and arguably had our better moments laid out across hot stone and concrete overlooking a muddy green lake of sorts. Our sticky, sweaty teenage selves, who would complain of the heat while lying directly under the sun, with no sunscreen or protection. We drank a lot of Boba back then. Throughout all four seasons. We had our usual orders, shop and rituals. That shop isn’t there anymore. Just like a lot of things from that time in my life. The worker used to know our orders off by heart, mostly due to how my ex-lover looked and dressed in our small hometown. Anyone slightly alternative sticks out like a sore thumb in an Irish town. We were so happy, young and pure back then, giggling as we carried the wooden wine container that looked like a treasure chest into our Boba shop. Filled up that old wine container with books instead of drink, because once again, I was young, happy and pure. A ritual of ours. Going thrifting and rewarding ourselves with Boba. We were so happy and pure. I wonder if that version of us ever really existed. Maybe it did at some point. I like to hope it did.
I don’t think of my ex-lover much anymore, definitely not as much as I used to. However, when the cold sets in and cars are splashing through soaked streets, I can’t help but think of her. Standing by a crossing near a roundabout, Christmas lights were shining above us, and the dark Winter evenings made it feel like we were out way later than we were meant to be. She was wearing the grey beanie with white writing stitched into it that she had stolen from me around an hour before. As we were sitting in the chippy, all secondary school students used to go to back then. Shivering so much, I thought it was the death rattle. That Death himself had planned to come take her away in the middle of our after-school date. I remember that date well. It was a good one. We didn’t have too many of those. Near the roundabout, noticed how blue and purple her hands were as I cupped them, as one would prepare for communion, closing around them and bringing our hands closer to my mouth, blowing warm air onto them. Scolded her for not bringing gloves because we both knew how cold she got. My ex-lover was quite taller compared to me, but sometimes she felt so small. Like if I touched her the wrong way, she’d break. I wanted to wrap her up in bubble wraps and blankets, protecting her from the cold outside. I suppose she wanted something similar, wanting the world to just be the two of us. For a while, it feels like she got exactly that.
The world was just us. Two of us. Our rituals. Creatures of habit. Boba trips. Summers spent melting on hot stones or walking around blades of grass the size of us. Winters wrapped up warm, trying to keep everything else out. Holding hands as we watched each other’s breath vaporise into the cold air, sat on a cold stone wall. Winter felt extra cold with her. Every season felt a bit colder with her.