Young Love (A Writing Exercise)

    We shared two classes, Math and English. She was terrible at both, while I was only terrible at Math. I can’t remember the first time I saw her, or when we first spoke to each other, but I do know I fell in love with her before I knew what love was, and maybe that’s what made me stay so long.
    After lunch, the first bell would signal us to take our seats in the hot corner room where Algebraic tongue twisters stared menacingly at us from the blackboard. Most kids would shout and take a while to calm down into complacent students, but when she entered the room with a subtle gait and her soft eyes glued to the floor, she would take her seat gracefully and dutifully take out her paper and book. I was hypnotized by her, even though most of the period all I had to look at was the back of her head, three seats in front of me. I would get lost in the shimmer of her auburn hair, and wonder what it must feel like falling over her cheek.
    It was months of this, her keeping to herself at every class, while I kept her to myself in secret. I began to notice my chest hurting more and more as the school year went on.

    “And don’t forget the detergent,” she said, scolding me before I had even forgotten, “You know how you always forget it.”
    She looked at me with her head cocked forward, her brows raised, and her dull grey eyes laser scrutinizing me. I was a simple task-accomplisher to her now. She’d permeated into the suburban middle class American Reality, and now I was simply playing a role in her daily production.
    “Mmm hmm,” I gave her the old generic husbandly acknowledgment, and went out the front door, clutching her flowery written grocery list with disdain and gentle apathy.
    It was on drives like this, when I was alone with my thoughts, that I would try to follow the course of events that lead me from having sweaty palms whenever I would see this girl as a young man, to my eventual ensnarement and captivity at the hands of this controlling and vapid presence that somewhat resembled a girl I’d once loved. But these thoughts were frequently interrupted by little bubbles that said, “Detergent” or “Glade, not Febreeze” when they popped at my cerebral surface.
    Even in my head, there was always a distant, “Yes, dear” in response. I hated that.

    We sat on the couch, watching some movie that is now and was then irrelevant. She hadn’t come over to watch a movie with me, and that wasn’t why I had invited her. I slowly inched my hand closer to hers, playing over terribly cliché movie moments in my head. Her small hand was spread invitingly on the smooth fabric just inches from my own. Our pinkies made contact, and I felt a small explosion in my chest.
    It was soon onto the old arm around the shoulder, which led her to lean in closer, and then the first kiss in all its innocence and nerve racking lack of experience. This went on for a few months, in varying degrees, until we made love the first time, and I unlocked myself for her in the quiet darkness that followed, letting her in on the private treasures of memory and youth that I usually hoarded all to myself. Mainly, I told her of how my father once went out to buy a pack of cigarettes, and never came back. I remember how she held me, and how she joined me.
    
    “Did you forget the detergent?” she asked, matter-of-factly, and with a smug smile.
    I nodded with thinning patience, and pulled the plastic bottle from one of the grocery bags, jutting it out to her and waving it logo side out, so as to stop the next question on whether I bought the right brand or not.
    She let a quick frown slip, and then went back to the living room. It wasn’t good when I remembered things, when I made choices of my own. It took the importance away from her, and gave her life less meaning. Giving orders was all she had now.
    I sat the bottle of detergent on the counter, stared at it for a long time, and then casually walked back to the front door. She, of course caught me before my hand was on the knob.
    “Now where are you going?” she asked with a whine.
    “I’m going to buy a pack of cigarettes.” I said, and slammed the door behind me.

Reviews

[Brittany]

They say that the sons will grow up to become their fathers. I like this little twist at the end. Really enjoyed reading this one Tim. The time lapses were perfect, your descriptions amazing. Really liked the line "...clutching her flowery written grocery list with disdain and gentle apathy. " It's amazing how young love is such a pivotal moment in youth and as we grow older it can fade and reduce down. We never think we'll reach that place of being human together. With our imperfections, annoyances, differences. This piece has such a sweet nostalgia for the past and a heartbreaking reality of domesticaton. Well done, sir.

[Sammie]

That was great. You set up the ending perfectly. I liked the fact that he was the one that fell in love when they were in school and now in present times the one that leaves. It does make me wonder what she did to him that made him so unhappy. Or perhaps it is just that he fell out of love. Either way I loved it.

[DavidRyanM]

Awesome, man. I dig the way you go back-and-forth in time, not letting us dwell in the "good times" long enough to love the female character , and not ditching us in the "bad times" long enough to loathe her. It's a perfect balance of both with a subtle undertone of complete honesty. Dig the last line. I like how you brought that back. How, no matter what, son will be like father. Well done, Sir. Mangina!