Same Old Story
She hadn’t been looking for love.
That’s what everyone says, she knows.
But really, she hadn’t.
She had side-stepped love. Walked around it.
Spent years with binoculars in close observation of the loves of others. Procured repellent.
She had learned the art of rappel and always carried her own sturdy rope, telling herself the only way to approach love was to descend carefully, slowly. But only if she had to. Only if love were unavoidable.
Then she’d tumbled. Irrevocably. Terrifyingly. All the way down.
So much could happen. Not happen. Did happen.
Long story short: He loved her back.
Why You Should Never Read Women’s Magazines to Find Love (Or a Prom Date)
Girls don’t want dates with you. (Trust me. I’ve been pondering it since third grade.)
Decent jobs don’t make you attractive. (Server at Den’s Burger Joint. She turned vegan.)
Shared history doesn’t bring you closer. (I was eight, okay? I pushed the merry-go-round to make it spin faster because rockets are supposed to be fast and yelled, “Blast Off!” and she tried to jump while riding the rocket and tripped on her stupid astronaut costume with the too-big boots and fell off and I was running so fast and clinging to the bars that I ran over her. Literally. It’s been nine whole years and she still raises one eyebrow whenever anyone uses that word: literally. I think it’s the most traumatic thing to ever happen to her. I wonder if it’ll be the theme of her college essay? Literally run over.)
Time doesn’t make love go away. (She was my best friend. Still is, even though we don’t really talk anymore. I wish we talked.)
Daydreams don’t really come true. (I stopped walking past the merry-go-round in the playground on my way home from school, because I drive now and it’s an awkward detour and because I’m old enough to know she’ll never be there waiting for my apology.)
Addendum: Daydreams come true. My car was in the shop (she works there). I walked home. She said her dress would be Milky-Way-colored and did I want to join her for prom?