.

     I don't want to write a love story: a satirical clump of bleeding words-twitching-

left wandering the debris of earthquakes or tornadoes to be rescued by the hero.  Too

overused.  Generic.  Boring.

    And besides, what would he look like?  Blonde? Crystal clear novel-like puppy

dog eyes? Or talk dark and handsome? How about a shiny red sports car with doors that

are difficult to open from the inside, so he has to lean over her shaking insecure body to

open them for her- accidentally knocking his pop can over in the process. Naturally (well

of course!), they would both laugh, easing the built up tension for the past two years.

They’re both all too used to hearing vague inquiries: are you two going out? Interested in

each other? Both shake their heads in unison every time, but look at each other in

anticipation of a deeper meaning.

    But what if it never comes?  A year later one of them finally breaks the ice: they

go to the mall together, or a fair, or a movie. He’s too afraid to grab her hand at all times.

At least she's satisfied- she had been spending her past 5 Friday nites at the movies

wishing only his flesh, his issues, his shaven body parts were sitting next to her.

.

    He declines in buying pop corn: they pay in separate checks.

.

      By now things are becoming a little uneasy, when walking down the hall he

automatically grabs her hand- an instinctive move-surely a mistake. She laughs it up (by

now covered in pen), but secretly wishes his hand had stayed there, washing away her

clamminess- the worry.

  They digress. They persevere.

  Ultimately, the issues come up: what about the friendship? Relationships

demolish, tearing flesh w/ cheap words and sharp talons- you can't recognize anything

after it's over. She wouldn't; he would but she wouldn't; she's a little bit more tainted, her

water's been dipped w/ too many paintbrushes, colors swirling together in an orgy of

angry fluids, souls dividing like fractions in the everyday limbo of sex. It would be like

kissing her hand. It would be like kissing that boy at the family reunion and then finding

out he was her cousin. It’s all wrong.

  She’s laughed w/ him, cried w/ him, never felt such extremes w/ this feeling that

her heart would simply cease to pump precious blood, enriching the cells that souly

desire love. Love. She’s never felt so comfortable saying that word- so bluntly, so

honestly. Still, he's just her friend (shh... nobody knows this!), the shoulder she cries on,

telling shockingly dirty jokes and embarrassing stories. Nobody’s even mentioned the

possibility of being together. Oh, there was one time:  

   ”So, do you like him?"

  She shivered in the icy winds, crossing her arms to shield herself from the arctic

air of winter, the answer forming into a crystal fog as it escaped her mouth- "No"- then

disappearing faster than the idea occurred.

  So they stay at this level forever, never advancing, but slowly declining, so small

you'd never see it w/ the naked eye. He talks of another who spells her name funny, like

she's trying to catch his attention w/ those extra letters, blindly finding some incoherent

meaning everyone else has missed. She takes it, sulks, looks at ticket stubs from movies

and listens to his favorite music. His side is never really heard.

  And eventually (as all great loves who have never combusted do), they float

away- they don't realize it- but they're ever so distant, the planets have less room to

breathe than them. Words run of symbolism. They just plain run out.

.

  Popcorn: fluffy and light, little weightless clouds resembling no hearts nor rings;

oils bursting from the shells where they were so violently contained.

  He acts flushed in the entrance of the movie theater, too embarrassed to show her

the pictures in his wallet. She smiles discreetly, passing the pop corn.

.

    He declines in walking her to the door: they've paid in separate checks.

.

oh how our dreams went bump in the nite...