Love Story

What is love? Baby, don't hurt me.

It smelled like jasmines. The lovers lay still, entwined in each other, legs and arms grasping at each other, not wanting anything to end. The darkness settled into the spaces of their bodies, while the light of a single candle danced across their sweat-glistened skin.
        “I love you; do you love me?”
        “You know I do.”
        “Say it, say the words. I want to hear you say it.”
        “I love you.”
        A breeze rushed past the sill of the window, crushing the flame, allowing darkness to cover them and ebb them on towards sleep. Crickets outside cried at the moon.
        The next day, they stayed naked until noon. Her body was tanned and beautiful; her buttocks still taut and youthful, her breasts small yet proud. Other than the grey in his hair, no one could tell his age. Across his torso was that space where there was no immediate definition, but rather a looseness that reminded her of what young boys looked like running and playing on the beach before they learned shame.
        There was gayness in her eyes and cheeks that nothing could take away, she was just happy to be there, away and alone, with him. He was just happy to be with her, too. Away and alone. He loved her in such a way that he was jealous of other men’s eyes and how they could see her from angles that he, at times, couldn’t.
        The lounged in the morning; the rays of the sun streaming in the windows, pressing down on them, covering them in warmth. He watched her from his chair; watched the rise and fall of her chest mimic the rise and fall of the harmonies of her voice as she talked and talked. Every now and again, she would laugh and it was like the twitter of intelligent birds. He liked the way her hand would cover her mouth while she laughed, as if her joy was something to be hidden.

***

The writer paused, looking over what he had written so far. He wished he knew where these people were going. He had just started writing, but now he was stuck. The life of this love was over so soon. He lit a cigarette and closed the document.
        Love was difficult for him to write. The last of it he remembered was betrayal, and he could write betrayal. But love was a foreign country he hadn’t traveled to for too long; a battlefield he hadn’t fought on other than in memory. Love was fate and destiny and stars and other things he didn’t believe in.
        The musician on the couch stopped playing his guitar and looked up. The writer looked at him.
        “What?” asked the musician.
        “What do you mean, ‘what?’” asked the writer.
        “You stopped. You never stop unless something is wrong.”
        “What is love?”
On the page, the lovers stayed suspended. But the writer had created them and their existence continued on independent of his work.

***

        In her dressing room, the girl finished preparing to go out. She turned out the light and joined him in the foyer. They were both dressed elegantly and gave the impression of a couple going off to prom; but only if that couple had money and experience and the prom wasn’t a child’s function. They looked like adults imitating kids imitating adults.
        The man led her outside, and held the passenger door on the car open for her. She thanked him and got in. He took his seat behind the steering wheel and backed the car out of the driveway. At the street, he put the car in drive before pulling back into the driveway and parking it. When the girl looked surprised the man let the corners of his mouth fold up slightly.
        He got out and walked around the car to hold the door open for her once again. He held his hand out to lead her from the car.
        “What..?”
        But she took his hand and he led her back to the front door, through the foyer, the living room and the back hallway to his study. When he opened the door, and led her inside, she gasped.
        The entire study had been cleaned out leaving a bare wooden floor. Around the room a small ledge had appeared at eye level and all along the ledge were lit candles. At one end of the room, the only place where the line of candle light broke, there was a phonograph under the ledge. The girl’s face glowed independently of the candles. The man left her standing in the center of the room and walked over to the phonograph. He lifted the lid, lowered the needle and flipped a switch. The Blue Danube began to play. The man again joined the girl in the center of the room.
        “May I have this dance?”
        She looked him in his eyes and smiled, curtseying briefly before taking his hand and letting him lead her around the makeshift ballroom.

***

The writer was unimpressed. He had offered to buy the night’s drinks if the musician could quote ten separate lines of Shakespeare. Half an hour later, he had two done and was holding his head between his hands in frustration looking at the surface of the bar. Suddenly he looked up.
        “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.”
        “Three. Seven more to go.”
        “S**t.” His head went to his hands again.
        “You ready to give up?”
        “No.”
        The writer looked up and saw a girl looking at him from a stool near a pool table. She was with another girl who was taking a shot. When they locked eyes, the writer smiled and she smiled back. The writer took some money from his pocket and set it on the bar.
        “Forget about it.”
        “What?”
        “Forget about it. Come with me.”

***

        The girl’s simple linen skirt was short enough that the grass tickled and itched the lightly defined muscles of her lower leg. The man sat next to her, between them a basket and a bottle of wine. She took up the bottle and drank from the lip of it. When she set it down, her hand found a spot in the grass behind her as she reclined slightly. The man moved his hand over hers and then, as if it hand a mind of its own, stopped short and instead gently rubbed along the inside of her forearm. She looked over at him and smiled. He smiled back. They both then turned back to watch the setting sun. The sky was red; the clouds, sparse and overhead where they stayed out of the way.
        The sun had nearly retreated behind the peak of the hill they were directed towards. Slowly it dipped further and farther down until it disappeared completely. Dusk washed over the two forms. The man took the bottle of wine and finished it off. He stuck it in the basket and closed the lid over it. The girl looked down at the silhouette of her hand in the grass and then tilted her head up towards the man. He leaned in a placed a determined kiss on her lips.
        “Let’s go.”
        “Okay.”
        They walked over to where the horse and carriage waited he helped up to her seat before finding his seat next to her and picked up the reins. With a gentle flick of his wrists the horse began to carry them back to the stable.
        In a pile of hay meant to feed the horse, the man pulled up the bottom edge of the girl’s simple linen skirt. Finding his place between her slim legs, he felt her hand move down to help guide him. Their eyes were locked on each other. She liked to watch him as he entered her.

***

The writer and his bar-stool sweetheart laid on the bed kissing. The kisses were sloppy and he grimaced a little every time she opened her mouth too wide. Her hands were all over the place.
        “Do you have a condom?”
        Giggles came from the other bedroom on the other side of the hallway.
        The lights were out and it was over quickly and silently. Before his eyes could adjust to the sudden flare, the barfly’s cigarette was just a newly-lit ember and the lighter was hidden again in the darkness. The smoke was pungent and thick in the writer’s nose. He found his own pack in the pair of jeans on the floor by the bed and lit one up. The cigarette was a good idea. It replaced that awkward conversation two people only have when they don’t know each other very well and they know they won’t see each other again.
        “I’m going to write about this,” the writer finally said.
        “Make me beautiful and classy.”
        “I’ll make you worth crossing a bar for.”

***

        Later, before either one would grow old and feeble, the girl would die quietly in her sleep. The man would be awake and lying next to her, whispering in the dark. Telling her he loved her. Like a swan, he would die soon after. Good and evil, light and dark, man and woman. One cannot exist without the other. Without love, he would find it hard to breathe.

***

The musician entered from the front door and found the writer sitting at the computer. Listening to the random rhythm of the typing, he sat on the couch and picked up his guitar. He began to play a little sequence he had created. The writer stopped typing and looked at the screen. The musician looked up.
        “Wanna go get something to drink?” the writer asked.
        “Yeah, let’s do it.”
        “Alright,” said the writer, getting up. “Let’s go some place else this time.”

Reviews

[Mont Chadsen]

i thought this piece was really good, and i agree it would make an excellent film, but it made a fine short story

[Stephanie J. Mccants]

This would make a good student film short because it is a piece that would work better if visually told than in written form it is a good concept but drags a bit as a story to read.