Closed

Elaine sat down in the café and started writing a letter that she knew she would never send. It would come out of her like some unwanted creature of its own. She would describe the moments in which she could trace the rise and fall of her faith in him. She relived the moments of elation that would crest and crash like green waves to his cold indifference. It became a spiraling story she would relate to no one except to the pages in her weathered journal. Her fascination with vocabulary provided a distance which helped cushion her from the pain. It was as if describing the emotions with impenetrable accuracy she would be beyond the experience. These emotions would no longer belong to her but to a literary exercise. The combination of eloquent phrases tied together with punctuation would help her ignore the fact she was crumbling inside for a man who would never be hers.

Her coffee had become cold and undesirable. She realized that she had spent too much time festering over this passioned ambivalence. There were too many pages in this notebook to one man who refused to reciprocate her love. The intoxication of his presence kept coming back; and even though she wanted to reject these feelings his presence awoke a sleeping animal inside of her. He was an enigma of a man, who would not open up to anyone, including himself. His twists and turns were his personal flurries and she was not privy to enter into his frozen world. Yet, she kept coming back to stare into his brown eyes, his crooked smile, his handsome face, and relish in his mild lisp. Somehow, it was all very endearing on him, until he would gently lash out at her. It was his warning to not get too close, and she learned to take heed.