One Page Love Story

What Became of a Whimsy

            It began as a whimsy, a flyer. Long time acquaintances, he had always liked her, and unbeknownst to him, she had fancied him, as well. Out of the blue he asked if she might like to get together sometime—for a drink or maybe dinner. She accepted and soon an open Thursday evening rolled into an enjoyable Saturday night. In the weeks that followed, they began to see one another more regularly, until more or less officially, they became a couple.

            It was at this point the learning process really began. How little of one another had they known, how much more was there to learn? Was she really this wonderful? Was he this miraculous? Why had they waited so long to find out?

            And so, as they say, what became of a whimsy, was in fact, love.

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Not A Date

            This was not a date. They could not take any more dates. They had had enough of those.

            So they set rules:

            “No asking about where you’re from.”

            “Or how many brothers or sisters you have.”

            “And, God, please don’t ask me about work. Anything but work.”

            “No favorites either. No favorite bands, no favorite movies, no favorite books…”

            “So, basically, if it sounds like a checklist question, don’t ask it.”

            “Perfect.”

            They met at a tequila bar on the west side. Their initial reintroduction was justifiably awkward as they stumbled on their own rules. Every question seemed forbidden.

            But they did find their first margarita helped a little bit. The arrival of another very obvious first date helped a lot bit.

            “They’re going through the questions!” She whisper-yelled in his ear.

            “He’s terrified right now. Check out his leg. Above the table, cool. Below the table, seismic shaking.”

            And so they fell into a rhythm. Finally, a conversation that was not a checklist and not a reach into the psychological files of their pasts. It was entirely present—comfortably woven within the tequila bar, its patrons and concoctions, and the two beautiful faces they each saw across an unsteady wooden table.

            Nights pass like this. Not by what is said, but how it’s said. With joy, with humor, and with gladness that another soul would partake in the same.

            It was the sort of conversation friends might have.

            Until the night ended and the parameters of the evening crashed all at once.

            “I have a question,” he spoke beside the A/C/E entrance. “If this was not a date, then am I not allowed to kiss you right now?”

            “You’re allowed,” she said. “I’ll just pretend to not walk away.”

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The Tallest Swing In The World

We rode the tallest swing in the world

Ten miles high the ropes did go

And on that board we sat so close

Me the boy, and you my girl

 

“Count to three and then let go”

Straight on down the mountain slope

Faster than we’d ever known

As fast, we learned, as love could grow

 

Ditching peaks of summer snow

We reached a land of green and gold

Here is where we made our own

“There,” you said, “there is home.”

 

Reflections in the pond below

Beside our friends, the gliding gulls

You skimmed your feet and water curled

Splashing all the nearby boats

 

Until, at last, we once more rose

Back atop that mountain slope

To fly, a feeling, my soul now knows

To swing from heaven with you so close

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A Message From Rich

Three-quarters. Seventy-five percent. One-hundred-ninety-five stories down, sixty-five to go. I guess this is why they say love is not a sprint…

But I sense this last stretch will feel like a sprint. The end always does. One of those, “It seemed like forever at the start, but it wasn’t nearly enough” sort of things.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the run so far. I’ve certainly enjoyed writing them, and even more, sharing them. I think that’s a great theme, spread wide, be it love or art or sport or anything you’re fond of. Share it. Don’t worry about whether it’s good enough, you’re bound to hit a nerve and connect with somebody.

That’s been the best part, for me anyways, when you’ve shared back what some of these stories meant to you.

Looking forward, I’d like to see One Page Love Story go out with a bit of a bang. And I think the only way to do that is with some involvement on your part. So let me know what you’d like to see, a special story covered, maybe a contest or a giveaway or two. Who knows, maybe even a party at the end …

So, please, drop a line with anything you have to say. Even if it’s just a song recommendation or to say hello, I’d love to hear from you.

Hope you enjoy the final sixty-five and, as always, thanks so much for reading.

Much love,

Rich

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Bag of Bones

Son, I’ve broken near every bone in my body. Look at these fingers, they ain’t straight. Never will be. But they work just fine. Not perfect, maybe, but they work. The body’s a miraculous thing. It’s made for the long run. It heals itself so we can take chances. Of course it don’t feel good to bust a tibula in half, but you go and trust your body. It will heal.

Love’s the same way. Hurts like hell when we break our hearts. Hurt me worse than any muscle I’ve ever torn. But the body heals. Yes it does. And your heart will heal, too. It’s made to heal. I’d be more worried about the poor man who never broke it once. Means he never tested it. Never saw how far this bag of bones can go.

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No Charges

            “We need to know if you want to press charges.”

            “I do not.”

            “But she shot you.”

            “Yes.”

            “Twice.”

            “That’s correct.”

            “In your sleep.”

            “Would it have changed anything had I been awake?”

            “So you agree it was premeditated.”

            “I don’t see how it would not be.”

            “But still, you wish to let her go?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Why?”

            “Because she is my wife. Because I love her, and if she felt it necessary to shoot me, I trust her.”

            “She said she was upset you lived.”

            “Officer, if not for her, I might never have lived at all.”

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Blue Morpho

            Fred liked entomology. Unfortunately, girls did not always like entomology. “So, like what,” they might say, “you pin dead bugs to boards and hang them on your wall?” To which he would reply, “Yes,” and they would scrunch their noses and step six inches back with each description of how entrancingly beautiful the wings of a Menelaus Blue Morpho could be.

            That is, until the day he met Libby who happened to maintain her own excellent collection of Blue Morpho’s (Both Morpho menelaus and Morpho peleides, in fact). Upon discovering Fred’s hobby, she did not scrunch her nose. Rather, she may have even stepped an inch or two closer as she peppered him with questions about specimens she had not yet seen.

            And so this: that we are all not alike is of no cause for concern. One man’s passion is another girl’s plight. But it may be helpful to know that sometimes, like the mating habits of the Menelaus Blue Morpho, when we flash our own unique wings, love has a way of flying in.

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A Blank Page

            A blank page. A million thoughts and none at the same time. How to explain the tingling feeling he still gets when he nears her after being away, or the gratitude for the mother she’s been. How to remind her of the brilliance she plays down, or the dedication she offers to her any cause. Or how do you write what it’s like to kiss her, even in the morning when her breath is raw and her lips stick together; that’s waking, that’s the sun coming up inside. Then again at night, it’s the sun setting peacefully over his kingdom, except, of course, when the moon comes out to play. How do you say these things? How do you fill that great blank page with your heart?

 

            (Just like that, just like that.)

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On A Park Bench

            She sat beside him on a park bench. He spent the next nine minutes questioning whether this had been an invitation to speak, or simply, a girl sitting on a bench.

            “You realize,” she said at last, “if I were to stand up now, and walk away, you would never know, right?”

            “So what do you think I should say?”

            “Start with, ‘Hello.’ I think we’ll manage from there.”

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