Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Stephanie Heit

Love Story #1


I don't write love stories.


We didn't fall in love. I fell in love with him. It was because of the blue butterfly, how
his words landed just outside his lips, how he said he'd teach me how to run.


Snow, when it wasn't expected. Late September with big flakes after dark. Sky in awe,
trees laden with storm. The fire lit the living room and shadowed objects onto the walls.
We ate pomegranates. The juice stained my lips, face, hands. Eating a piece of fruit
became life's work of texture, taste, senses and shades of red. Later, he nicknamed me
Persephone. When his housemate called me that he got angry, possessive almost.


"Damn you. I'm in love with you."


We were in his room. Basement dwelling complete with unfinished walls, single light bulb
in addition to programmed blinking Christmas (in his case, Hanukkah) lights and a bowl to
catch drips from the kitchen sink a level above. The floor was closet, bookshelf, laundry
basket and garbage can to whatever landed there. He was lying on a naked mattress, big
enough for only one; he planned a solitary life; yelling these words:
"Damn you. Damn you."


"I'd tell you to leave, but you wouldn't know why."


Eddie Lubin's Magic Diner: brightly lit, open 24 hours, pitcher fountains on the walls,
game booth complete with turning wheel to win a free rootbeer float or the opportunity
to kiss the chef if there really was one since the food was just up to par with diner fare.
After midnight crowd - high school students and those not into bars. Black and white tile
floor scuffed, with ketchup dried in edges.


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