Posts Tagged love

Vignette…Testament to Love, KC Novella Chronicle

12 July 2010

(Artwork: Artist Unknown. Valentine-cupid-cherub-with-swallow)

You know that I love you, right?  But you know what really makes me mad? The fact that it’s always been so damn one-sided with you.  I used to believe that maybe someday you’d come to see the error of your ways. Realize that we were right for each other.  Cut from the same cloth.  As true and binding as a covenant burned onto a stone tablet.  But I need you to see it, too.  I’ve recently had a feeling that something soon will come between us.  Remember what I once warned; ‘I’ll be devastated, but you’ll be the one with regret.’  I know it sounded cursed, but it was a warning of what I saw coming.  I’d like to say I want you to be happy, but I’m not going to lie.  I do want to see you content, but feel the misery without me.  I’m too selfish to want for your happiness without me there to have it with you. There. I said it.  Sorry if this rubs you the wrong way.    Brandon 

Any girl would be ecstatic to receive a letter as emotionally charged as this (outwardly enraged, but inwardly flattered, secretly delighting in the fury steaming from an infatuated admirer).  But this is Brandon we’re talking about.  And I’m not just any girl.  So naturally while reading through it, I react with that all too familiar feeling of worry and annoyance that has plagued me since the beginning.

      Brandon, please.  Don’t do this to yourself.

      We’ve been through this so many times already.  And don’t talk about fate.  For one thing, I’ll decide my own fate.  It’s bad luck to assume something is destined before you’ve seen the outcome. It’s like mocking Providence. Only in hindsight do things appear to be preordained.  It’s another thing to assume you’ve won the grand prize.  It only dooms you the opposite.  Almost analogous to proclaiming the next engineered cruise ship to be unsinkable, then deigning to name it Titanic.  In life where the gods keep vigil on our egotism, rarely can we afford to esteem ourselves in such high regard.  

      Starting from our teens, my friend Brandon and I developed a tradition of writing letters that has lasted to the present day.  Whenever one of us had something raw to share, you can be sure we’d end up losing sleep over it scripting an epistle.  We held fast to this method, un-swayed by the convenience of modern Email, each of us refusing to let the Internet age intrude on the habit.  A letter, scripted by your own hand felt permanent.  It committed you to your actions.  The very effort sent the message that you cared.  That you meant business.

      Brandon had been my next door neighbor and best friend since our early teens.  For that reason, it was easy to pop letters in each other’s mailbox whenever one of us had the ‘urge’ to ‘purge’ and get something off our chest.

      You can tell them off.  You can say all the things you wouldn’t have had the guts to say if you’d had them standing in front of you. 

     I knew he’d seen me kissing Devin from the front porch, a man I wouldn’t torture him into meeting at this point.  The swift drop of the curtain from behind the arched window told it all.  The spectacle instantly starving any hopes he’d nurtured on me for so many years.  I’m guessing it prompted him to write this letter where he poured his guts out for the umpteenth time. 

      And my heart ached for him now as it did from the very beginning. 


Vignette…Knights of the Round Table Discussion, KC Novella Chronicle

27 February 2010

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, no one is expecting me to climb the Calaveras Dome.”

“Some people just might.”  Jackie broke off a piece of her cookie and popped it in her mouth.  “I know Craig used to go to Yosemite National Park to rock climb.” 

Craig.  He just had to go to Yosemite and show me up.

“So then how should I describe myself?”

“Friendly.” Layla began.

“Conservative.” Jackie added.

        Great. Two boring descriptive’s that weren’t the least bit enticing to a man.  No guy is consciously looking for a friendly, traditionalist type of girl.  Even men carry quixotic, starry-eyed idealisms on their dream partner.  I wasn’t convinced that writing just ‘plain-old friendly’ was the best bait to lure a man.

        Jackie’s eyes narrowed as she dissected into the wording.  “For your ideal relationship, why don’t you just describe someone who’s confident.  Self assured.  Brawny.  That seems to be your type.”

        “Why,” I retorted, sarcasm saturating my voice, “so I could meet another Buzeo Degardis?” Jackie knew precisely whom I was referring to.  She eyed me contritely before dropping her eyes to her lap.

        Two weeks earlier both she and Keith arranged for me to meet one of his friends through a double date.  They called him Buzeo.  That alone instantly flagged a bad impression which sent undulating ripples of dread through me.  It sounded gruff and unpolished.  As if it belonged on a man who wiped the sweat off his forehead with the same dirty sock he’d pulled off his foot after a grueling work out. 

        But Keith vouched for him, hyping him out to be this honorably decent, straight-up kind of guy who was as open to finding a decent girl as I was to finding a great guy.  Jackie gave him glowing reviews, even maintaining that she would go out with him herself had she not been involved with Keith.  As soon as you hear that endorsement, you begin to think ‘Wow.  There must be something to this guy’.  I’d seen the people she’s dated in the past.  Although I didn’t always agree with her pick of men, there were quite a few times when the men she dated hit the Richter scale on their personality and often times, good looks.  Not that physical beauty was the only thing to go by, but it was always a comfortable start for a blind date.  And I trusted that Jackie, knowing how fastidious I was in choosing men, would have taken this factor into consideration. 

        Since Jackie had only met him once through Keith, her impression of him was limited to that one encounter.  I’m sure that in that first meeting, he was on his best behavior.  Most people usually are in the beginning. 

        She depicted Buzeo to be tall, handsomely chiseled and nicely built.  She raved about his intellect, knowing it was an attribute I highly valued, (Brandon being the seed to the valued virtue) while Keith blathered about his commanding demeanor at work.  I’m thinking… Lieutenant Karl Agathon from Battlestar Galactica -but as usual in the brutal realm of blind dating where the joke is always played on the unspected hopeful, Buzeo turned out to be the antithesis of what I had been envisioning. 

       The reality of Buzeo proved to be a harsh one. He was spray-tanned orange and un-proportionately built.  From the waist down he was narrowly tapered relative to his heavily buxomed upper half.  He was sickeningly vain and bragged about the home tanning bed he recently purchased for his bedroom.  Astonishingly, he likened himself a modern day Casanova.  I had yet to see the evidence of his mastered trade.  He talked about politics, but not from a worldly, informative perspective. 

     His opinions were naïve and his inferences on world events, ignorant.  He openly questioned the purpose of casting a vote in this country when the final count was only drowned in this stupid thing called the electoral-college.   He confused Jim Morrison with Robert Plant, wondering if the Doors were ever going to join up for a reunion tour.  I had to point out that Jim Morrison of the Doors passed away in 1971.  He was genuinely disappointed at the news.  The final insult came when I mistakenly accepted a compliment in what turned out to be an insult.  Just after I thanked him for making a flattering observation on my youthful appearance, he bluntly set the record straight by amending with “I said you look good for a girl your age.  I’m not gonna lie to you and say you look younger than you really are.”

      “All right,” Jackie unwillingly conceded, her face blushing scarlet at the memory, “he was kind of rude.”

      Layla tilted her head, her forehead warping incredulously. “He said that?”

      “Kind of?” I repeated, ignoring Layla.  I was startled that Jackie would be so reluctant to admit to such a gross offense.

      “That is rude, Jackie.” Layla supported, regarding Jackie with obvious contempt before turning to me.  “What did you say when he said that?” 

      “Nothing.” I said, somewhat embarrassed that I hadn’t taken a more indignant approach, like storm out.  “What could I say, really?”

      Layla’s demeanor turned choleric.  “I would have walked right out of there.  No…”  She declared, her attitude had a sting to it, “I would have told him exactly what I thought of him first.  Then walked out of there.”  She snapped her fingers, the loud crack somehow heightening the offense.

      I was irritated by her blatant posturing.  She always took a metaphoric stance on issues that didn’t involve her directly.  Though interestingly enough, whenever she found herself facing similar transgressions, she could be just as speechless as the next person.