Love costs two Danish Kroner. I know that because that’s what was draped around my neck on my last birthday.
Hung on a chain was a coin, and she bought my love with that silver chain, the coin attached and a kiss. I don’t think even old age will steal that memory from me.
She was tall and beautiful, draped in a white dress that so perfectly held her body. I can still see the white lace wrapped tight, hugging those shoulders. Her ruby red lipstick and each draw of a cigarette made my heart beat faster and faster.
Two Danish Kroner.
That was the last gift she gave me, the last gift before giving me my heart back. I will always remember it. A tight embrace on a frigid day, wind pulling at our clothes as our fingers would later replace, cloaked in a smile, and a promise of “I’ll see you again.”
Since that cold day, we’ve spent the better part of the last few months laughing and being joyful. We’ve spent it waking up next to each other. We’ve fought, kissed, made up. We’ve listened with wonder as the word “love” trickled past our lips, despite our better judgement. We’ve spent days in cities far from our own, fingers locked in loving embrace. We’ve drank on boats, rooftops and with friends. We’ve shouted for joy and sang songs like they were our last. We cried. Oh, how we cried. We danced with joy—well, I danced, all the while watching my sweet girl laugh and remind me “we’re not dating.”
Oh, how wrong we were. How wrong we were, my darling.
But without a label to define us, there’s no justification for my bleeding heart, and it seems there’s no obligation to acknowledge it.
Two Kroner, and my love bought a broken heart.
There is no way to redeem this purchase. There is no forgotten receipt that can be traded in to get back. I am reminded of sleepless nights holding each other tight, sweet kisses, and the softest of hands as I swing back and forth and feel the weight of love around my neck. It’s fitting how close to my heart it hangs, and how I can feel the pull of these last few months feeling heavier and heavier as we near our final transaction.
We’ve learned to fight easier than forgive. We’ve found ways to go days without seeing each other, and justify the slow reply to text messages and lack of phone calls that subsequently follows.
Maybe love is like a parking meter. Perhaps it’s something you need to keep feeding with coins or risk the dreaded meter maid noticing it’s expired. Or maybe not all spots are overnight, maybe some are only valid for 30 minutes, and we overstay our welcome.
Maybe two kroner wasn’t enough. Maybe the time just, ran out.
Author: Farris Holliday
Editor: Evan Yerburgh