Hi all--Thank you so much for reading. Any tips and critiques on prose style or anything else, especially how I can improve, would be fantastic. Thanks!
All we know—and all that Peter Drabbing knows¬—knew, leastways—is that he met Rachel Walgreen at some coffee shop on some street corner on some regular old day.
A regular old day; but then again it wasn’t a regular old day, neither to Peter Drabbing nor to Rachel Walgreen. Because instead of the regular old day that appeared to anybody else, to Peter Drabbing and Rachel Walgreen—for a while, at least—, the faint sunlight had a sense of magic to it, along with it the air, the breeze, the springtime. This regular old day was far more than a regular old day. It was a special day. An unforgettable one—at least in its own way.
And so was, in fact, the coffee shop and the street corner. These things were special, and unforgettable, too.
They were special and unforgettable because Peter Drabbing and Rachel Walgreen fell in love there.
Like I said, forget the details, forget the unwieldy specifics. All that mattered were two human beings, one female and one male, and the eyes of these two human beings, that just so happened to meet each other’s. And then a regular day turned into a special day—a magic one.
I can outline what sort of words was spoken, but words are often shallow and flat.
But simply put, Peter Drabbing, upon seeing the eyes of Rachel Walgreen in that special coffee shop (though at the time, it wasn’t special yet), started to smile uncontrollably. All of a sudden he forgot what it felt like to not smile. He felt like a maniac doing all that smiling. And Rachel Walgreen began to smile on the inside, a whole lot as a matter of fact, but on the outside she hinted at no such thing. At least not yet.
Peter Drabbing, feeling like a lame duck uselessly flapping its wings, muttered, “Hello,” because he felt the need to fill the air with something. Rachel Walgreen replied, “Hi,” and words were now officially introduced into their relationship.
Peter Drabbing then said, “Sorry, I don’t usually smile this much.”
“It’s okay,” said Rachel Walgreen, with a faint smile herself.
“I’m usually a very sad person, actually. Very sad.”
“Oh, no—how sad. Why is that?” Rachel Walgreen actually believed the shallow and flat words of Peter Drabbing, but of course he was lying.
“Because nothing ever good happens to me.”
“Well. That makes two of us.”
It was ironic, because they both knew that something good was happening to them in that very moment.
“Say,” started Peter Drabbing. “I noticed that you don’t have a purse, which means that maybe you do not have any sort of money. Why don’t I buy for you then?” The pair, of course, was waiting in line at that special coffee shop.
There was a red purse hanging over Rachel Walgreen’s shoulder, the shoulder closest to Peter Drabbing. Red is a rather conspicuous color. A direct translation of Peter’s observation would make one think that he was incredibly stupid, or maybe even half-blind. But as I said before, words are shallow and flat, and Rachel Walgreen smiled and said, “Sure.”
Over coffee, at some special coffee shop, some special street corner, some special day, Peter Drabbing and Rachel Walgreen conversed. They conversed lightly, with many jokes and many jabs and many lies. Like the fact that Rachel Walgreen owned the hardware store named Walgreens, that she was a millionaire with mansions on both coasts. Or that Peter Drabbing had five middle names and he had forgotten one of them, that he had to check when he got home what it was again.
There were some truths said, too, like Peter Drabbing’s statement that Rachel Walgreen had the prettiest eyes he had ever seen.
They were green. As green as springtime.
And that made Rachel Walgreen feel like a lame duck uselessly flapping its wings, she was blushing so much.
The two finished their jokes, their jabs, their lies. It took them quite some time, somewhere between one and two hours—between one and two hours of Peter Drabbing smiling, and Rachel Walgreen smiling outwardly, as well.
Both of them smiled on the inside.
Finally, the pair departed out the door, and Peter Drabbing said to Rachel Walgreen, in order to fill up the air, “I hope you sleep cozily in your mansion tonight.”
Rachel Walgreen nodded, said that the sound of her own personal waterfall would make sure that happened.
Then Peter Drabbing said, “Well, I sure hope something good happens to you soon.”
Rachel Walgreen said, “I hope something good happens to you soon, too.”
Both of them knew the irony, the shallowness of the words.
And they smiled, looked into each other’s eyes—the exact way they had met—and suddenly, in a burst of magic, they kissed. Right outside of that special coffee shop, that special street corner.
And the kiss was a burst of magic.
It was as sweet as the trickle of a stream.
It was as special as the flow of honey.
The kiss ended, and Rachel Walgreen suggested, “Same time tomorrow?” and Peter Drabbing nodded and said, “Yes.” Then they looked once more into each other’s eyes—Peter Drabbing’s eyes into the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen—and then they turned and walked their opposite ways.
On the way home, Peter Drabbing was overjoyed. He kicked the rocks on the sidewalk as he walked, his smile still on his face. He knew better than to trust his emotions, though. After all, his relationship with a girl name Shirley Weather had ended only two years prior, and it had left a scar that was still very well with Peter Drabbing. He certainly didn’t want to go through something like that again, ever, and he realized that whole deal had begun in a very similar way to this. And though his connection with Rachel Walgreen had just begun, though he knew love could not be based on such a small interaction, that it accumulates over time, he used his reason and prayed to God—or to me, the writer of this story—“Please, if this is anything, don’t let this end like it did with Shirley.”
He kicked a pebble with his shoe.
“Please, don’t let me feel pain like that again.”
As I said, words can be shallow and flat, they can mask whatever is truly intended. And for any which reason that Peter Drabbing said those two things, nobody can truly know. Maybe he was just reassuring himself.
However, I had to grant his wish, because to Peter Drabbing’s avail, any relationship with Rachel Walgreen was fated to end in the same manner that the relationship had ended with Rachel Walgreen—because I chose it to be like that. Peter Drabbing would feel that pain again, and, just as he had said, he didn’t want to “feel pain like that again.”
So Peter Drabbing went to bed that night, undressing himself and settling in under the covers, all the while thinking of his encounter with the green-eyed Rachel Walgreen.
But when he awoke the next morning—because I, the writer of this story, designed it that way, in accordance to Peter Drabbing’s wish—he awoke with the sweet taste of a good dream. It was as sweet as the trickle of a stream, as special as the flow of honey. But only a dream.
In it, Peter Drabbing had met a girl named Rachel Walgreen some day at some coffee house, spent one to two hours there, and parted having kissed on some street corner.
And Peter Drabbing remembered having smiled a lot during the dream, and he was smiling now, too. But then, like all dreams, it began to slowly slip away, to wiggle free from his mind. And soon enough, reality hit, and Peter Drabbing was thinking how he would need to hurry for work, or else he would be late.
And that unforgettable dream—he forgot about it, soon enough. And he went to work.
Meanwhile, at the same time as the day before, a woman named Rachel Walgreen sat at a special coffee shop. She looked at her watch, sat for ten seconds, and then looked at her watch again.