Love Story

I'm working on self-publishing a collection of short-stories called, "Human," and this guy (once properly edited) will be the finale. It's an older one, but appropriately fits the motif.

He sat longingly.  He waited, he stewed, the anger ebbed and flowed, but he never acted.  He was so taciturn it was detrimental.  She was a brunette his first.  A half-wit quarter past moronic.  When the days were young and the most worry was a professor’s exam-- the love seemed true.  It was easy to forget the minutiae of school life when you were with a girl.  He remembered running through the tree lines to sneak into her house while her parents were out.  In retrospect it was childish and happened like every other cliché teenage romance.  It existed out of angst and necessity, but with nothing to compare and a future founded in wet sand it wasn’t meant to last.  God had other plans and this time Vishnu agreed. 

 

Fate assumed the two would figure it out and in some way they did�"at least she did.  Just shy of three years she left.  She thought that she had become sad, but in truth she had always been sad.  She was not ugly, nor was she pretty.  She wasn’t dumb, but she wasn’t intelligent either.  She was the most mundane a person could be, but she thought herself better.  It was after his twenty-first birthday when she left.  He swore he’d never drink, but like all young men you wanted to forget-- and for a while he did. 

 

It was hazy winter.  It was one filled bars, women, and blurry workdays.  He always had a wingman though.  He was his best friend and confidante.  Besides family and a few select others he was one of the few constants in his life.  The nights waned into the next evenings, and all was calm, or so it seemed.  Then one date blossomed.  The attraction was mutual and a new spark was formed.  This one was different.  She had opinions; she possessed thought.  Conversation and debate were bountiful.  Lust, however, should never be mistaken for love, and besides forgetting, young men also mistake lust for love.  Within the month he was head over heels into nonsensicalness and bad decisions.  Even his faithful companion and wingman told him it was a mistake, but like all young men he ignored his most trustful in order to forget the first.

 

By the time spring came the lust had waned, like the winter’s evenings, and the two went their separate ways before God and Vishnu could draft a new blueprint.  He was sad, but she had helped him forget.  He was just as confused and lost as he had been before, but his heart didn’t ache.  He cut back on the drinking and he began to focus once more. 

 

However, just as fated had intervened the first time it reared its head once again and spurred the boy to follow his wingman to, of all places, a Salsa club.  Once there he laughed and charmed his way to a mysterious and gorgeous blonde.  She was pretty.  She was intelligent.  But, most of all she was kind.  They talked and grew together quickly even though they were both jaded by the past.  Within the year they left the nest and began anew with friends.  They focused and rallied and within the next they were completely on their own�"anew once again.  A new family was born and the successes began to gather.  The girl with the blonde locks drew and debated with fervor, while the boy typed.  He typed to clear his thoughts.  He typed to remember, because he knew he shouldn’t forget.  He typed his love story, and hoped that it would never end.