The Meeting

As the cool rain ceased to fall against the black and shiny streets, the balmy night caused the moisture to roll along in an eerie fog. It looked like the souls of the living dead who slaved away in corporate dungeons or decomposed in seedy bars were all marching along the main streets and shadowy alleys.
Ramona Potts stood outside Cal's Diner and smoked a Lucky Strike. As the smoke filled her lungs with its acrid poison, she told herself once again that the past two years of her life rode on the off-chance that her boyfriend Julius would remember why they were meeting and actually show up. To keep from having a meltdown, she smoked another cigarette.
The smoke unfurled out and into the atmosphere, joining the ethereal fog on its transparent voyage down 5th street. Ramona pulled out her cell phone and checked the time. 11:18. She remembered the first time they had made love was on his kitchen floor, and the clock on the microwave read 11:18 in the same greenish glow that her phone emitted now.
"An hour late. As usual," she muttered to herself.
And although the chorus of her friends and family reverberated in her head (Why him Ramona? He's trash. He isn't worth the pain. That guy is worthless, Ramona.), she knew she'd wait for him all night if she had to.
Because that's how love works. Even if someone continually lets you down, you'll just keep waiting for him on 5th and Parker Street, even though you know they probably won't show up, just to hear them say they didn't sleep with that girl so things will feel like they did when you were blissfully unaware.
And so Ramona played by the rules and waited. And at 12:37, on her fourth Lucky Strike, Julius broke through the fog listening to music on his over-sized headphones and wearing his gray sweater that was missing a button.
That fucking sweater. He'd wear it in the desert if he ever knew how to get to one, she thought to herself.
Julius pushed his thick, black frames up on his nose. Ramona counted twelve freckles and a zit on his face. "Hey," he said.
And even before he began on his long winded explanation of why and where and who, Ramona already knew that those two years she'd loved Julius were now as unimportant and insignificant as the grape gum that stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Because no amount of time withstands some girl at a party who tastes like Southern Comfort and has eyes like an absinthe-drenched wet dream.
She suddenly lost her appetite and thought that a diner was a stupid place to meet. Maybe a hacksaw factory or met packing plant would have been more appropriate.
"I'm so sorry. I'm such an asshole," Julius said, in almost a whisper. Ramona could see a tear roll down his face.
"Yeah, okay," she replied. Her response was nonchalant enough, but she was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting out in tears.
Ramona grabbed her bag and headed up Parker Street, lighting another cigarette. As she walked, she figured that she'd probably end up calling him, because two years is an awfully long time to be with someone, and cutting off all communication completely is near to impossible. And after talking to him, she'd probably decide that even after all the times he'd let her down, it was still worth it to take him back and fight through one more. Because two years is an awfully long time to love someone, and going on not loving them after all that practice is near to learning how to walk all over again.
And because that's what love does to you. It shows you how invaluable being in love is to your life. It shows that, even if the person you loved ripped your heart out, you know that you can never be happy without them. Because love is the slowest form of suicide.
Ramona turned onto Bingham Street and wondered what she'd do if she discovered she couldn't ever love Julius the same way again. And the balmy night stole another soul to join the cavalcade of steam, smoke, and loneliness in the black and shiny streets.

The Story of My Life

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. This mantra is coming back to haunt me.
Anyone you invest your time in and actually take the courage to love will inevitably fuck you over. Royally.

And my story is the same this time as it ever was before. I fell for everything; hook, line, and sinker. But even though this is probably the worst I've been screwed over, I feel much more optimistic about it than all the other times, and I have no idea why.

Maybe I'm still in denial, the natural novacaine. Because every once in awhile it's like I get lifted from some sort of hazy fantasy and everything comes screaming at me again. There is nothing that can ever make me forget about what happened. The weird part, though, is that I don't think that's what is keeping me from saying "Fuck it. Let's just do this." I mean, I guess that has a lot to do with it, naturally. But sometimes I think that it was just a catalyst of realization for me. It sort of snapped up the shade to make me see that my feelings weren't what they used to be. I don't know. At the same time, I guess it's kind of hard to respect and care about someone that basically spit on the face of what you made together.

I'm still so confused by everything that's happened. I hate that this even is what's going to define my summer. "Summer '08? Oh yeah. That was the year my heart got crushed under the big bus that's my room mate."

Jeez. I need a cocktail.