Looking in All of the Wrong Places

A writer who is trying to write a love story experiences one of his own.

When you give someone a story you have composed yourself the events that follow are quite similar to asking a girl out for a date, or something else involved in the gooey rubbish. You feel confident with a certain air of suave around you, and you have rehearsed what you would say in the mirror only a couple thousand times. Your hands are sweaty, and shaking as the moment of truth is at hand. The seconds of waiting seem like an eternity as you wait for a response. The heartbeat is like a slow, and steady beat of tribal drums. Everything around you seems to slow down as if you are in a movie, and some really cool action scene is about to unfold. Sorry, I am not Keanu Reeves and the other is not Morpheus, so take your American loving ideals elsewhere. When the other comes back to the conversation, only one of two things will happen. Either pure happiness will explode throughout your own body like a warming supernova, or your veins will run cold with icy sludge and your insides will crumble like the great empire of Rome.

            I was expecting a “atta boy,” or a “good job,” but instead I received a letter to meet after class delivered by a grim face. My heart stopped. All of the trains that run through my body fell to a stop. This was getting turned down by Katie Clauson all over again in the 3^rd grade. So I basically waited in a slightly familiar paralyzed state until the strike of the bell.

“Listen Luke, you are a good writer, but your stories are so dark. Is everything okay at home?” She asked with a face full of worry.

I had no way really to respond. Of course everything was fine, not great, but fine. Heck, I was the guy who people thought was weird because I smiled too much.

“Yeah, everything is great as always.” I replied stupefied.

“Maybe I am reading too much into it.” She admitted. “Well if you would I am going to give you a project over break. I need you to write about a feeling other than despair, and loneliness. Could you write me a love story?”

A love story? You mean a story where it is only gooey feeling, and no one dies? I didn’t even know what love felt like, let alone write about it, but I was too prideful to refuse.

“Well I think I could give it a shot.” I said with figurative confidence.

            So after I finished the rest of my classes of the day, I got to work. I would sit in my bed for hours thinking about love. Have I ever seen love? My parents when they were married maybe, but not now. You dated Emily Gibbons for a year, what about that? No, I was too young then. I was too childish then, that is probably why she dumped me before 9^th grade. What about Alexa? I am sure you felt something with her. I probably could have loved her, but she would have never loved me. Ah come on, don’t be too hard on yourself. It is true you cannot love someone if they do not love them self.

            So I started to looking for it in other places. Movies, books, poems, even stories from my grandma about the old country. All of them useless, and mind-numbing. Except for my grandma’s tales, natives of Newfoundland are the best story tellers due to their rapid hand movements and accelerated speech. So then I decided to visit my favorite coffee shop to see if I could examine it.

            I would get up in the morning, and get ready in my daily routine. After I fed the dog, I would stroll to the spot. I loved going to Gypsy Soul. The aroma that hit your face was like being welcomed by a brown sugar spirit. On the plus side it was always pack with people for me to examine all day. The first day or two were pretty uneventful, except for I found out what a caffeine high was like. I did not sleep a bit those nights, yet felt terrific. So the day after I dialed down on the lattes, and saw something I have not seen in some time. I would not have seen her if I wasn’t so clumsy, but I am grateful for it. I had just arrived at the shop, and was ordering my usual caramel macchiato. I must have been masked by its hauntingly beautiful scent of fresh ground Columbian with a fluffy layer of crème and caramel on top. This caused me to bump into the lady behind me. Luckily I tumbled a spin move around her, but I still bumped her rather boldly. Her name was Danielle, and her hair was messed over her face in a way that resembled one of the rare cases of the vines covering a house increases its beauty.

“Oh my, I am so sorry. Are you okay?” I asked.

“Thanks for asking. I believe I will recover somehow.” She giggled as she soothed her hair back to normal.

            Her eyes were as stunning as they were back in high school. The small emeralds pocketed inside of her eyes seemed to radiate throughout her face, and illuminate mine. I left the conversation there, and awkwardly retreated to an empty table. It had been years it seemed since I had seen this girl. Ever since she had befriended my sister, I had noticed myself gravitating towards her. That was then, and became nothing more. The next day I saw her again at the shop, and the next, and the one after that. Each one I saw myself watching her more, and my potential motivation less. Occasionally we would exchange some witty banter, and gave laughs. Oh how I loved her laugh. Now you might not think a laugh that resembled a cheerful donkey delightful, but strangely I did. Other times she would catch me taking peeks at her, and return with a rosy smile. This acquired just enough muscle to reveal the bottoms of her buck teeth. On one occasion she asked me about my writing.

“Well to be honest, this is the most frustrating thing I have ever done.” I replied.

“Maybe I can help. What is it about?” She said in a humorous tone of interest.

“Well my writing teacher said my stories, although well written, were rather dark for her taste. So she gave me the assignment to write her a love story over break.” I replied rather annoyed.

“Oh well looks like we have a struggling romantic we have here. Why don’t you write about me?” She requested with glimmering eyes.

“Well if I did my lady,” I said giving her a dastardly grin. “I would be obligated to keep that part a secret in order to maintain the suspense when you read it yourself.”

            We locked eyes for what seemed like an extensive time after that. Later that night I went to my mother’s house, like I usually did on Wednesday nights. This was because I was still a broke college kid with no cooking skills, and she was also the female version of T.V.’s Emerald. So as she was making her famous spaghetti and toasted garlic bread, I asked her about love. She asked why, and I filled her in on my enigma.

“The thing about love, Bub, is that it will happen on its own time. If you spend all your time looking for it, you will eliminate your ability to see the forest for the trees. Love is not something that can be found in a Where’s Waldo book. It is a feeling that is sprouted through you because of the way you are affected by the other. Now good looks, and clever words are nice, but that person’s faults are what makes them interesting. I know you get lonely at times, Bub, but you will find someone who’s differences make sense to you.”

            That night I laid in my bed thinking about what my mother had said. While my mind was simmering with the idea, I started to think of grandma Effie’s stories. Sometimes they were of back home, but others were Greek tales. There was this one that always intrigued me in a way I could not explain. When the gods came into power, humans had four arms, four legs, and two heads. The ruler of the gods, Zeus, decided these beings were too powerful to rule. So he split each one up, which formed the humans of today that have two arms, two legs, and a single head. So now we search our entire lives to pair up with another. This is so we can be reunited with our other half. The half that comes with all the faults that we have missed ever so dearly.

            The following day I went back to the coffee shop, and found her already there. When I saw this, a feeling of warmth crawled around my insides. I grabbed my coffee, and grabbed a seat at her table.

“Well I gave it my best. Would you care to read it?” I asked in a matter that revealed my vulnerability.

            She nodded in agreement, and started reading. I watched her like I would a classic film; looking for signals to decipher. As she took sips of her steamy beverage, and lived through the pages, I noticed at moments she would chuckle to herself. When this aspired, she would blush like the enjoyable part of a watermelon, and shake her head while taking glances at me. At times it was hard to tell if she liked it or not. The main suspect of my nervous demeanor was because it was about her. You could say it was quite similar to this story. Once she finished the piece she placed it on the table between us, and tried to coaxed the crease in the corner of the paper. The moment was quite, yet calm like the summer nights when we would talk all night by a blazing bonfire. She reached across and slid her hand into mine. She looked up to me with her one-in-a-million smile, and uttered a sentence I will never forget.

“It’s terrible.”