A Short Story About Love

I stared blankly at my laptop mere hours ago debating what to post. I started jotting my thoughts, and it led to deep reflections on my past. This is a pure first draft and my thoughts unwinding. A completely different post….a short story about love.

Note: I am currently single and have been for a year so parts have been slightly edited.

I was afraid. We were standing there in the middle of the hall, his smile in an upside c – although, not quite wide enough to imitate a grin. It was a look that showed anguish to my pause. The room was silent. Even amongst the staff room teacups clinching and wide murmurs which bellowed from my right ear and his left.

We knew the moment was over and washed away like the hat I once lost to sea. It felt like our romantic novel had transpired to an awkward comedy. One opening his love, another creating a joke with no response.

That moment came back to me as I was running down Regent’s Street. My date had awaited over an hour for me to show. The restaurant had patiently continued to set aside our table. One terrible train journey and heels that made life an ice-ring with no skating, I finally stepped foot on the street.

Stumbling along; messaging him that I had arrived, I walked the wrong way. Calmly I turned back on myself and remembered that high-school encounter. The first time I put a halt on love.

I didn’t think this date had potential. He was an anecdote to my vanishing self-esteem. The previous guy ghosted, but as my friends reminded me, I did ghost him when I said no to frolicking in his bedroom.

He was looking up at strangers like a 90’s child gleefully hoping an ice-cream van would pop around the corner. Then I appeared.

His eyes were a holiday blue; a 12 pm shade in Miami when the clouds have evaporated. His smile was as precise as a cartoon sketch from Pixar, and despite being only two inches taller, I felt my eyes peering up as though a plane had circulated by.

Inside the restaurant, the ambience was delicate. The place showed no kids in sight; each chair was taken by an introvert. The oak brown walls replicated a study; if it were not for the smiling waiters and their eager joy to demonstrate their knowledge of the menu, I would have assumed we were in a cold waiting-room which happens to serve food.

Two glasses of wine and steaks later, our shoulders slightly hunched down as we zoomed in closer. I no longer felt required to continuously apologise for my lateness. We clearly connected effortlessly past cliche lines and comments on the weather.

Double my age and with a career my best friend dreams of; he had a flat in another country, and three nieces and nephews who he talked about in the manner of a mother gushing about her new-born baby.

As we headed back to the tube station with our fingers interlocking, my date kissed me goodbye. It was in the middle of the walk-way with passers-by knocking past us in repeated frustration.

My current boyfriend, doesn’t gush unless in public. He doesn’t walk into a room; he is the room. His suit is never a piece without a waist-coat; his shoes never feel the particles of mud, and while his eyes are a shade lighter in-depth and blue colour, they look a little more lived.

You can imagine thunderstorms and rain hailing; when you see your reflection glancing closely at him, it looks back in a cloudy vision.

“This is something to tell the grandkids”.

“I wonder how we will both look. You’ll be much older of course. My hair could be brown while yours is grey”.

I always reply back with a hint of sarcasm. Yes, he is older, and I like to tease one of the few upper-hands I have against him.

My intelligence is mediocre when he speaks various languages and plays various instruments. He can criticise you with enough charm that you receive it as a compliment.

He has old-school manners and keeps tissues on the inside of his suit pocket. His work bag resembles a child’s school rucksack or a bag you take to camping.

There are deep lines centred around his forehead and at the edges of his eyes. When they crinkle, you can paint a lined pattern. The smoothness missing from his complexion, is forgiven due to the smoothness of his seduction.

He speaks all the right lines and mimics my thoughts so eloquently.

The only trouble is our relationship is delving non-existent. We live apart and he waltzes in and out my life as a merry-go-round.

And then there was this other guy.

Have you ever written a short story about love? If you can actually define this post as that. And in truth, how did you feel reading? Were you like….a short story about love – interesting idea, or what on earth this isn’t your usual thing to post?!

If you loved this post, read:

If We Were Having Coffee…Love edition

Love Advice: 8 Things to Tell my Heart

Self Love Advice