Grab the bull by the horns.

For some reason, it had always suck me as an odd phrase, although it Is far more coherent than many of the the other phrases floating around.

And it is what I was doing now, I was sure of it.

Sneaking out to Erroll’s house at three a.m., to tell him what he meant to me the night before he left.

Surely I was grabbing the bull by it’s horns.

I reached his front garden in record time and threw some of the carefully raked gravel that thrived there at his lighted window.

There was only a suggestion of movement from my position, the possibility that someone twitched aside the curtain and peeked outside.

And then he was at the door, still in the check shirt and jeans he had been wearing earlier, looking at me.

There was something about the way Errol looked at people that made them feel small and insignificant. No matter how he felt when he turned his eyes on you, you always felt wanting.

This look was mild in comparison. There were minimal amounts of confusion in it, overridden by curiousity.

And he said: “Julia, why are you here? It’s three twenty six a.m.” And there was another thing. He always got to the heart of things immediately. He didn’t make small talk, he didn’t beat around the bush. The only time he would allow any deviation from the plot was during a debate.

“Why am I here?” I asked, trying to buy myself time. The thing with grabbing the bull by it’s horns is that there is no rational thought involved. Now I was on this- highly metaphorical, of course- enraged bull going full speed ahead, I really began to question the wisdom of my actions.

But it was too late now.

I cleared my throat. “Well. I’m here because like you said, it’s gone three in the morning and I spent the last four and a half hours unable to sleep because you keep cropping up in my head and I’ve tried everything else. And this is something I have to tell you in person.”

It says something about Errol that his expression didn’t change a bit. He had no clue, not even a slight idea, of what I was talking about.

I knew then that I definitely had no chance, no chance at all. But I held onto hope. Maybe the right words could change the way he saw things.

“I love you Errol, and I wanted to tell you before you left. I wanted you to- I needed you to know.

There was a silence, then Errol said “Oh.”

The moment stretched on for eternities.

“Please say something else,” I said finally, quietly.

“Right now there is nothing to say. I need to think about it – it doesn’t make sense-”

“It doesn’t have to make sense!” I cried.

“It has to make sense!”

The anger in his voice struck me back.

Errol had been brought up differently. It wasn’t bad, or wrong, as such, just different.

He had been brought up with wire in his blood, and he thought in straight lines. He was harsh, because he didn’t know how else to be.

But he was learning.

“Perhaps, though, you can explain to me.”

That was his apology.

And so I explained. I argued my point, and my love till every word, every metaphor, every angle had been exhausted and abused.

The light, by then, had begun to seep into the sky and the birds began to cheep.

And he, by then, had a new glow in his face and I soared. My words had shown him a different way.

“That is…” he said, his voice slipping for a second into thought before resurfacing quickly. “That is astounding. That is truly astonishing,” he pondered some more, not seeming to notice the heart that I had just poured out to him lying on the floor. “It’s amazing, and so ridiculous.That the mind creates such an extraordinary ‘feeling’ just to give an extra push to the natural need for pro-reation.

If it was possible, I sunk down lower than I had been before.

“So you think you are in love with me?” he asked, an eyebrow raised. I nodded, mute. “And in return for your feelings what do you want??”

I couldn’t answer.

“Perhaps a kiss would be appropriate?” he said, making his way to me. “You’ll have to help, I’ve not done this before,” he said, leaning in and pecking me gently on the lips. I’ve not had much experience myself, but that was not in any way a good kiss. But I wanted time to practise, to do it again, with him.

I reached in the second time, and took control.

Now, he had picked up my heart, and he held it in his hands.

“Extraordinary,” he murmured to himself, before taking a few steps back. “Well, I should probably go. I still have to finish packing. Maybe I’ll see you later, but I doubt it: we leave early.”

And he went inside, still clutching my heart so tightly.

I didn’t see him later, of course, and he left, moving far out of my reach, and taking my heart with him.