Monograph of a Modern Romantic

A short story about a girl I once cared deeply for, who cared little for me. The story touches on relationships in general in the modern world and my views on life as a dying romantic

Monograph of a Modern Romantic

Her name meant angel-like, so I figured she'd be a bright light in my dark glum life. Time spent together wasn’t very long, but it was memorable... at least to me. I often wonder if these memories will last or will they be engulfed in the abyss that is my mind. Did I do something wrong? Was I too clingy? Or was it all a preordained motion I couldn’t control like the rest of them, which she promised she wouldn't be like. She told me she would never leave like the rest, and for a brief moment I thought perhaps fairy tales were real, perhaps we would last forever. We met at a club and what should have been a one night stand went further. The moment I laid my eyes on her I was stuck, her long body filled her sun dress well as she danced without a care in the world. I wondered what I would have to do to get her attention as anxiety attacked me, and somehow I found the courage to get within arm’s length of her. She was even more beautiful up close, her long curly hair wet with sweat, as she moved with the music. As I approached her I couldn’t help but notice how her freckles seemed to sit perfectly on her face, her sweet warm smile directed at me, filled me with courage as I began to speak. Somehow some way I had her attention, this most exquisite, most exotic woman would be mine for the night. Or so it shoulda been. - I introduced her to my friends whom I consider family, I showed her my life and all aspects of it. I shared with her something deep and sacred to me, something which at the time only two other people in my life knew about, a secret I had been keeping for as long as I could remember, my hopes of becoming a writer -We were at the beach, lying down on a towel, my head rested comfortably on her thin yet thick thighs; I began to speak about life, my life, my struggles, my past, my aspirations. It was so easy to talk to her I couldn’t help but open myself up like a book for her to read. We spoke about many things and I told her about an idea for a book I would write and she said “wow, I would actually read that.” It felt good to have her support, I felt like she was in my corner; the corner of the guy who had been whaled on over a dozen times, so decided I would be in her corner. I was there when she needed someone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on. I was there when she was feeling lonely and needed attention. I was there for her because she was my lover, my lover who seemed to want more form me, and I began to want more from her. You see her brain was sharp like mine allowing us to connect in a way I don’t often connect with others, we understood each other, we connected instantaneously almost as some sort of cosmic lovers would, but what we had was far from cosmic but rather catastrophic. Soon she be began to tell lies, I absolutely despise being lied too, I mean are openness and honesty opaque? -I remember the first time my instincts told me she was lying; it was a believable lie, so I chose to take her at her word. But something inside of me screamed loudly telling me to run, it screamed trust and honesty today, in our generation are dead (and they aren’t coming back). She told me something happened with her brother at school and she had to go check on him (an excuse she had used before), he’s a bit of a trouble maker which made her words believable. But I still thought why would her younger brother want his ninety-five pound big sister to rush to his rescue, this was someone who more or less considered himself  a “Scarborough thug”. But like I said it was a believable situation and I had no reason to doubt my angle (except for that nagging writer’s voice inside my head). Hemmingway once said “The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in shockproof, s**t detector. This is the writer’s reader and all great writers have it.” I have no idea, nor do I really care whether I’m ever going to become a great writer. What I do know is I’ve always been sort of a walking lie detector; a voice screams at me from within and nine times out of ten it’s right, especially when I want nothing more than for it to be wrong.  -Once upon a time there was a girl I met online, lets call her Emily. Emily and I spent our time talking, clubbing and dancing until our feet hurt. She told me I was the only guy in her life and I told her she was the only girl in mine. Things went well for the first two/three weeks; Emily and I were inseparable. One day we made plans to meet up at our usual club, which she promoted at, but when the day came around she went cold like an icebox. I tried desperately to contact her but as time passed I realized she probably didn’t want to speak to me. My mind wouldn’t stop turning; the voices in my head screamed unsavory things, but most importantly I wondered if she was okay. Something, anything could have happened to her, we are all just mortal beings waiting patiently (some of us not so patient) for death. The night came and I remained restless: tossing, turning and wondering-what could have possibly happened to her? The whole time I knew the truth, my “s**t detector” had been pulsating in my stomach making me ill but I couldn’t accept its words. You see she mentioned an ex-boyfriend once whom she claimed she had no feelings for, but he wanted her back and what my experience had shown me was that girls love running back to their ex’s, no matter how badly they’ve been wronged by them (at least if said ex is cute). Since I couldn’t find sleep that night I got the bright idea to go to the club we were supposed to meet at. I went on my own, I figured she if anything I would buy a couple of drinks, quiet my mind, come home and get a good night’s rest, but I already knew what the more likely possibility was, which is why when I first had that thought, the thought to show up at the club, I pushed it down the way the immune system pushes down a growing cold. I hopped in a taxi, which I could barely afford (Uber wasn’t popular back then), paid twenty dollars cover at the door and just like that, there I was in the centre of a raging fuckfest, I mean dance party. It didn’t take me long to find her it took about sixty seconds to be honest. The voices had guided me to the club and they would guide me through the crowd of people; in hindsight I don’t really understand how I found her so fast I mean based on the amount of people and size of the club and the fact that she had been somewhat hidden behind a pole of sorts, the chances of me finding her within sixty seconds of entering the premise were, well… slim. But there she was grinding on another man, he wasn’t particular tall but taller than myself, a little stocky (but I could take him), as I approached them she instantly flew off him and walked towards me with guilt ridden eyes shoulders slacked down as if to say “now what”. So I asked, “Is that your ex?” she said “Yes, he’s had my phone the whole time so I couldn’t message you. He doesn’t want me talking to you.”  I asked her to leave the club with me and she said no, I asked her if she wanted to be with him and she shrugged her shoulders, that casual nonchalant shrug she loved so much. I hopped back in the taxi went home and got a good night’s sleep, a little hurt but overall okay. You see my problem wasn’t the fact that she had relations with another, regardless of whether that person was an ex or not, but the fact that she couldn’t tell me. I’m an open minded person, definitely progressive, I mean the world kinda forces you to be… doesn’t it? I couldn’t care less if she wanted a causal lover, a  friend, a boyfriend she could claim when it suited her, all I care about is the truth no matter how deprived and twisted it may be. "Back to my angel (cuz I could go on and on about that relationship and others) we’re at lie number one which was believable, I have no reason to doubt her, it was I who she chose, it was I who she wanted. An angel who wants to be with me and me alone, what more could a man possibly want? The sex was great, our conversations, even better, she helped clean my apartment, and she loved my friends who all advise me to keep her around. Everything’s great to the point where one late night on a drunken journey to the beach, my friends start stalking about kids. They say, they think I’m most likely to have the first baby in the group (insert eye roll emoji here). Now they didn’t say my angel and I (who is right next to me) but me Noah, they think I will have a child shortly. I don’t think her presence had been accounted for, my friends like to speak with little thought, but the worlds lingered in the air and my angel looked at me with those big brown eyes of hers and said “we’ll have one when were ready, okay babe” I didn’t know how to react to that, in hindsight I don’t think she even realized what she had said. But personally I’m a little old school I believe in the words of The Kissing Song we all used to sing way back when, you know: (Tommy) and (Emma) sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

First comes love.

Then comes marriage.

Then comes baby in the baby carriage,

Sucking his thumb,

Wetting his pants,

Doing the hula, hula dance!

So when she said those words to me I figured maybe she’s really gonna keep her promise, maybe she wouldn’t leave like the rest. But of course she did. Leaving me with sleepless nights, tossing and turning, thinking about her, what she might be doing, who she might be doing it with. I’m left in these thoughts till two in the morning, then waking up three hours later to start a s**t day, without her in it. I trusted her, that smile that always sat on her face made it so easy to trust her despite my instincts; like the hopeful romantic I once was, I believed her words, all her words. -As time passed things seemed okay, we made love and held each other tightly through the night, her warm naked body tightly pressed against my own. She was something special to me something hard to put into words. Her smell was pleasant it wasn't perfume she wore, and if it was it must have been something natural; I often find cologne and perfume distasteful, they overwhelm the nose with chemicals. But her sent was natural, she was natural, no makeup no fancy clothing just me and her, two simple lovers. She met my brother who accepted her without hesitation, accepted her because I'm not the type to introduce “just anyone” to family. We did all sorts of things together, my angle and I. She made me smile, she made me laugh, and I the same to her. Her playful and childlike giggle had a sinister undertone which warmed my darkish heat. She knew all there was to me. But slowly, I felt her drifting away. You see we humans are fickle beings, we can’t help it; it is our nature. Perhaps it’s the fault of neuroplasticity as scientist say our brains constantly rearrange themselves forcing highlights on parts we use regularly. So if our brains are always changing as we learn new things then perhaps her brain changed as she learned more about me (or perhaps you shouldn’t date girls form clubs). I mean I felt we were similar, like myself she was always in her head; they call us introverts but unlike her when I come out of my head I come out awkwardly. Too much goes on at once and I often find myself saying the wrong things in social situations. But she had mastered the art of sociability, always coming out of the clouds at the right time with the right words, then she would give that cute little smile of triumph and go back in. As time passed the rift between us grew larger and larger but it was not yet big. One day I journeyed to visit her and asked her to spend the day with me, she said she had to visit her grandmother who she hadn’t seen in a while. Now at this point, my brain’s going back to her birthday -she had worn a long black sun dress and two silver hooped earrings. During the chaos that is Toronto clubbing, she lost an earring, and she had quite a fit about it, she said it belonged to her dead grandma, or at least that’s what I think she said, it’s hard to hear people when there’s loud music, and you’re slightly intoxicated. Nonetheless, the loss of her earring got to her, but like everything else we lose, we get over it. We made the best of the rest of the night and when it came time to head home she told me she had a ride, she said a friend was on their way to pick her up. Now I don’t know what you guys think but as the supposed significant other of the birthday celebrant, don’t you have certain fiduciary responsibilities to fulfil at the end of the night? I offered to wait with her but she seemed like she wanted to talk to her friends and make her own way home that night, so like the gallant man I try to be I respected her wishes- Anyways my angel had to go visit her grandmother that day, I figured well you can have two grandmas so that’s okay, but the voices were screaming, they had picked up subtle cues like her inability to make eye contact with me, her short and quick answers to everything, her unwillingness to touch me, or really let me touch her. But whatever, what do these voices really know, is it not a good thing she likes to keep up with her sweet old grandma on her days off?  I offered her a ride since we were already together, and she had claimed she was going straight there after we finished talking. But she refused, adamantly, she said “it's one bus, I don’t mind”. I asked if she was sure as it would be no trouble at all to drop her off before I head home, but like the night of her birthday, she simply wanted me to go. She said she would come hang out after spending some time with her dear old nana. The night came and I decided to message her, to my unsupervised self no response. I gave it till about midnight and sent a couple more messages, this time she replied, she said she had spent the day with her grandma and her grandma was about to give her a ride since it was too late to take the bus. Fair answer right? But my s**t detector was railing off the charts I mean I’ve worked sales all my life and in most sales jobs elderly people tend to be the most receptive, mainly because they understand just how important helping others is (even if it’s a seemingly shady sales guy). One thing I know about most elderly people is that they don’t often stay up past eleven, and they love to wake up early. Now my mind had hatched a little plan that could reveal the truth, not a truth as undeniable as earlier with the girl I met online who already had a boyfriend, but still a truth of its own. You see my angel never had data and we both own Iphones and for some reason (which she gave a poor explanation to) she didn’t like getting the Wi-Fi at other people’s houses. I mean if she was with you, her phone was away, one of the things I liked about her. So whenever I would message her and she was home the message would be blue (an Imessage), and if she was out then it would be green (a text msg). I figured if she was really getting a ride home (and not lying, snuggled up in some other man's bed) then my messages would soon turn blue. So I waited till about two o’clock (two hours later), and sent her a text, and of course, it came green. So I brought up my little suspicion and her excuse was that she was just resetting the Wi-Fi… Come on! Really? That’s the best you could do? Resetting the Wi-Fi? Funny thing is, I would have found an “I don’t know” more believable. We kept talking (my texts remained green) and I told her if she was with someone else to just be honest, I wouldn’t think badly of it. What I care about first and foremost is the truth. She denied being with anyone else or even “talking” to anyone else. We exchanged texts for about twenty minutes and at 2:22 a.m. my messages started to turn blue…

I knew things would soon be over for us. Fairy tales are fairy tales, cosmic love is left for celestial beings, not humans, but I couldn’t let go. Like I mentioned earlier, I don’t connect well with most people and I still felt connected to her. We kept talking but it wasn’t the same, she no longer called me babe, she no longer looked at me deeply with those big brown eyes of hers, she seemed less interested in what I was up to, she seemed less interested in me. I wondered what I could do to make things right, but I knew in my heart that only pixie dust could fix us. Soon she wanted space, I gave her space (one week) then she said she wanted to be friends. I asked if she had started something new with someone else and she said it was none of my business, she said far worse with more rudeness, things I’ve put out of my mind. I told her it was all okay, I wanted only a small explanation; to help with closure, and she replied “closure? It was never that serious”. It was like another side of her had awoken overnight, a side that could only treat me with animosity; a side I could not fathom. I mean “how the hell could she hate me when I ain't did s**t, but be the real thing” (6lack). But nonetheless, I was left high and dry with the wheels in my head left spinning out of control not sure what really went wrong. Did I do something wrong? Was I too clingy? -Perhaps she wasn't the one for me, the whole thing was more or less superficial. At the time for a bit it felt real, but time reveals everything. And it revealed how meaningless I had been to her. But it’s okay, I'm a sensitive and emotional spirit, I crave deepness and realness, not meaningless, hollow sex or money. I crave someone who would rather I showed up with flowers than in a Benz truck; for gestures are quintessential to the romantic, whether said gestures are small or grand, it is the thought that counts. -In the fourth grade, there was a girl, Daniel was her name. She was new in town and wanted to date me, and I wanted to make Daniel my Disney Princess. To show my seriousness, I gave her a silver bracelet, don't know what brand it was but it was pretty, I knew she would like it, and she did. Now how does a nine year old boy acquire a genuine silver bracelet? He steals it. I took it from my mother’s jewelry collection, luckily for me, she never missed it. After a week of whatever it is nine year olds do, she dumped me. You see, I was the third fastest in my school and overall an easy guy to get along with, which made me somewhat popular. Apparently she was only interested in dating me to become popular. When I ponder about situations like that, I truly wonder how people are capable of such deceit, how does one look another in the eyes and speak falsehood, knowingly. Are people born like this? Or did they acquire this skill along the way? How did they learn and master this art, is their some sort of Hogwarts where one learns these things? At times I think it’s better to simply leave one’s heart out of romance because to approach love’s doorstep with it in hand is to risk it falling on the ground, forever altered. For if the one I were to make vows to, were to drop such a delicate thing, I would become an untamed force for darkness. The one with the constant grin on his face, an overwhelming force so huge and unstoppable the earth itself will alter. Plants will cease to grow, the sun opaque by my dark clouds. I will be known as “he who shall not be named” (Harry Potter), spreading chaos and misery with every waking step, every ounce of brainpower dedicated to spreading destruction, I will embrace villainy in its truest sense and become the ultimate antagonist to the world; the Trojan war will pale in comparison to what I may bring. The world will know malevolence like never before, a place where love can't grow, only fear and chaos will exist, complete and utter anarchy. For is that not the world that awaits us since he chose to eat the fruit? Should a world of the complete opposite not be what we strive for? To strive for a world at the zenith of peace-that is my true dream. A world where compassion and selflessness are common, a world where truth holds value and honesty is rewarded. A world where our leaders aren’t on the brink of madness, threatening to eradicate the citizens of it's enemies. A world where corporations do not commit “food fraud” for the sake of money. Such a world could come to past if we chose to reach for it, if we strive to be better as individuals then we can be better as a collective. -I look at the escalating divorce rates and I wonder, maybe it was all for the best. Nowadays, affairs are as common as McDonald's, cheating on your girlfriend or boyfriend has become a norm. People have forgotten the meaning of commitment, the word no longer has gravitas. But then I see that one in a million couple, who have found each other, who have endured much, who have a love as deep as Noah and Allie (The Notebook), or Jack and Rose (Titanic). I think perhaps it is all worth it; perhaps meaningful, profound, unwavering love trumps the ideals of the modern hedonist (which I once was, which most of us are today). But it is not entirely our faults, as we have not been shown better. The media glorifies sex, it's everywhere, in ads, in pop-ups on our computers, on our phones. Sex haunts us like the demons of Dorian Grey. It stalked me at an early age, sex. I gave into it with little merit, I wanted only to be like Barney Stinson (How I Met Your Mother), to live an adventurous life, free to do as I pleased, free to sleep with half of Toronto as if it were all some game. Sex has rooted its way into the most common of fiction, it is even in fiction that seems to have taste, taste in the highest sense; the significance of fiction, this art form that once saved me, seems lost. The significance of literature is slowly dying as technology advances. For youngsters have not been taught well the importance of literature, for youngsters don't understand the words of Gardner who once said, “The great tradition of literature has always been the cutting edge of morality, religion and politics”. Politics in its truest sense and not the political games that are played by today's political animals.  During my days as Barnabus Stinson, I was asked if I ever find myself craving more, at the time the question didn't seem to matter, but of course the wheels in my head love to spin uncontrollably. I pondered those words deeply, I soon realized how empty and truly alone I was. I realized that my soul had been shattered into a bunch of little pieces, each romantic piece forever belonging to an ex-lover of mine. I still see their faces as I close my eyes each of them haunting me, for I too have inadvertently broken hearts in my time. I'm now left with little of my soul for myself.

At this point I don’t know if I’m being dramatic, sensitive, or overly emotional, but I once read that a true artist must embrace his emotions, so I try to embrace it all. And all I feel is a strong untameable desire for her. A desire for her presence, for she was once warm and sweet, at least to me. It made me feel good to hear her call me babes, it felt like she meant it; I was her babe and she was mine. Everything felt exciting with her: a late night walk, an early dinner or even a trip to wonderland, it was all equally exciting with her. As long as we were together nothing else really seemed to matter. I would have given my all to her if she had done the same, for I wanted it all, her pain, her misery, her hopes and dreams, her love. I wanted her love. I would have embraced it all, for are we not creatures of love, meant to love; we’re made out of love, in the act of love, to love, whether it is for the purpose of loving thy father or thy mother or to love something beyond. Regardless of what our purpose may be on this planet, we must make the best of what little time we have, we must embrace those dearest to us, savoring every bit of time we have with them before it is too late. Unfortunately I’ve learned that  no matter how much we wish to hold on to something or someone no matter how dear they may be to us, no matter how much time we have spent with them, we must at times, let go. Consciously I'm over it, I’m ready to let go (or at least that's what I tell myself). But my subconscious cries for her, plaguing me with nightmares of her, vivid nightmares of us together. Together and Happy. Happy on a beach, happy on the moon, making love on the lost island-the stars smiling at us as we look back grinning at them in complete unison. I call these constructs nightmares because I wish only for them to be real, but they come to me as fiction; the only art I wish to master. Fiction, the only thing on this god forsaken planet to ever truly excite me. Other than love. But love and I may never get along. So I must master another art, the art of letting go. It will be a challenge, for I have always been bad at letting things go, for I often remember things with great vividness. I often find myself simply wondering; will she remember me the way I remember her? Was I to clingy? Did I do something wrong? Or was it all a preordained motion like the rest them. I’m left with sleepless nights wondering what I could do to get her back. I’m willing to change and allow her games to be played without question. I’m left feeling the words of Ruth B. "You found somebody new. You left me in the past. I don’t even know if our memories will last. But if by chance it doesn’t work out. You’ll always have a chance. With me in my world.