JessM
10-15-2010, 10:59 PM
i haz story this time. completed. not too set on the title. thanks.
~~~~~~
They met at a movie and she auditioned for him. His memory moves only in brief snapshots like a staggered photo album: a handshake, a clumsy hello, a broad smile, and a few colors—a peach dress if he remembered correctly, and he probably did not; maybe they were shorts, and maybe they were lavender. He never thought to file that moment away, the moment of one time little significance, but later, a plaguing regret.
But her laughter, her humor, he did remember. He remembered how freshly confident it was, unabashed, genuine, and real. It was transcendent. It left behind the insecure reluctance of teenage humor. Is that funny? Should I laugh? I think it's funny but does anyone else? It was pure. It smoothed any pending awkwardness. She understood him. Her laughter was empathetic and flexible. If every sense of humor had merit, she recognized it, nurtured it, and allowed it to blossom. How versatile, how understanding. Her laughter was her presence. It diminished others' and expounded compassion to everyone around.
But he did not think about their first meeting so profoundly until years later--she was still his friend's girl at the time and off limits, of sorts, and then they said no more than five words to each other for the next ten months. A handful of hellos, waves, and head nods were sparse and scattered and amounted to no real friendship just yet.
Then a year later they had class together. They spoke often. Her friendliness was so becoming he could hardly help it. Acquaintances grew into friends, and friends began to walk the same halls together they once did without the anonymity of the past. He liked how their conversations made him feel. They buoyed him out of the looming funk a dimly lit high school hall inevitably drew him into. They were bright spots in otherwise petrified walks through locker-lined corridors of blaring tedium. Then junior year ended.
At the end of a long summer they went swimming and talked at length for the first time in months about senior year, and college mostly. Relaxed, he went with the natural flow of conversation, interested in everything she told him and vice versa. A gentle breeze teased their bodies as they lay side by side studying the endless blue nothingness above. Jean skirt, and green bathing suit with white polka dots, and no makeup, she was very pretty.
“Did you finish the reading?” she asked; they covered their upcoming senior year in detail.
“No but I figure I'll do fifty pages a night for a week and get it done.” She had already finished.
He rolled over and faced her and she proposed, “let's be in the same class.” He agreed nonchalantly, hiding his eagerness. She wanted to be near him. It was her effort, her idea and all he did was agree. He moved into her class the next day and when school started they sat next to each other and that was all it took. For forty-nine minutes everyday he only experienced her. His senses neglected every other trace of activity outside of her three foot radius. It was just him, and her. The dim fluorescent lights paled, the chalk on chalkboard faded into a murk of muddled, unaffiliated aural scratches. He became a lens with a single subject. Surroundings were blurred, irrelevant to his existence, and burdened his focus. Was he even in class? Nahh.
Near the end of the year it all came together. She became his and he became hers. It intensified over the summer before college. They could not stay away from each other, and each moment apart was agony. It was during those secluded times in which he became jealous, untrusting. He had sought after her for so long and did not want to lose her to some audacious Casanova bent on acquiring the infatuation of all the pretty ladies out there. It should not have been an issue—he should have known their care for one another was too pure and too strong to dissolve in a moment of lustful caprice. She did not worry as he did; she felt secure; she knew it could work. But he became consumed by the jealousy and insecurity of one inexperienced with love. Who were you with? What did you do? Do you love me still? His thoughts ranged far from the natural flow that carried their budding potential up to that point. And once the erosion began, it could not be stopped. She grew resentful, and he, fearful. The end was in sight, and indeed it came, as the delicacy of their bond crumbled under its own imposing weight.
And that was it.
~~~~~~
They met at a movie and she auditioned for him. His memory moves only in brief snapshots like a staggered photo album: a handshake, a clumsy hello, a broad smile, and a few colors—a peach dress if he remembered correctly, and he probably did not; maybe they were shorts, and maybe they were lavender. He never thought to file that moment away, the moment of one time little significance, but later, a plaguing regret.
But her laughter, her humor, he did remember. He remembered how freshly confident it was, unabashed, genuine, and real. It was transcendent. It left behind the insecure reluctance of teenage humor. Is that funny? Should I laugh? I think it's funny but does anyone else? It was pure. It smoothed any pending awkwardness. She understood him. Her laughter was empathetic and flexible. If every sense of humor had merit, she recognized it, nurtured it, and allowed it to blossom. How versatile, how understanding. Her laughter was her presence. It diminished others' and expounded compassion to everyone around.
But he did not think about their first meeting so profoundly until years later--she was still his friend's girl at the time and off limits, of sorts, and then they said no more than five words to each other for the next ten months. A handful of hellos, waves, and head nods were sparse and scattered and amounted to no real friendship just yet.
Then a year later they had class together. They spoke often. Her friendliness was so becoming he could hardly help it. Acquaintances grew into friends, and friends began to walk the same halls together they once did without the anonymity of the past. He liked how their conversations made him feel. They buoyed him out of the looming funk a dimly lit high school hall inevitably drew him into. They were bright spots in otherwise petrified walks through locker-lined corridors of blaring tedium. Then junior year ended.
At the end of a long summer they went swimming and talked at length for the first time in months about senior year, and college mostly. Relaxed, he went with the natural flow of conversation, interested in everything she told him and vice versa. A gentle breeze teased their bodies as they lay side by side studying the endless blue nothingness above. Jean skirt, and green bathing suit with white polka dots, and no makeup, she was very pretty.
“Did you finish the reading?” she asked; they covered their upcoming senior year in detail.
“No but I figure I'll do fifty pages a night for a week and get it done.” She had already finished.
He rolled over and faced her and she proposed, “let's be in the same class.” He agreed nonchalantly, hiding his eagerness. She wanted to be near him. It was her effort, her idea and all he did was agree. He moved into her class the next day and when school started they sat next to each other and that was all it took. For forty-nine minutes everyday he only experienced her. His senses neglected every other trace of activity outside of her three foot radius. It was just him, and her. The dim fluorescent lights paled, the chalk on chalkboard faded into a murk of muddled, unaffiliated aural scratches. He became a lens with a single subject. Surroundings were blurred, irrelevant to his existence, and burdened his focus. Was he even in class? Nahh.
Near the end of the year it all came together. She became his and he became hers. It intensified over the summer before college. They could not stay away from each other, and each moment apart was agony. It was during those secluded times in which he became jealous, untrusting. He had sought after her for so long and did not want to lose her to some audacious Casanova bent on acquiring the infatuation of all the pretty ladies out there. It should not have been an issue—he should have known their care for one another was too pure and too strong to dissolve in a moment of lustful caprice. She did not worry as he did; she felt secure; she knew it could work. But he became consumed by the jealousy and insecurity of one inexperienced with love. Who were you with? What did you do? Do you love me still? His thoughts ranged far from the natural flow that carried their budding potential up to that point. And once the erosion began, it could not be stopped. She grew resentful, and he, fearful. The end was in sight, and indeed it came, as the delicacy of their bond crumbled under its own imposing weight.
And that was it.