ANYONE WHO HAS SUBMITED TO THE EMAIL ADDRESS THAT WAS GIVEN I APOLOGIZE I MESS UP THE ADDRESS. BECAUSE I’M STUPID OR SOMETHING. THEREFORE IF YOU COULD JUST RESEND YOUR WORK THAT WOULD BE COMPLETELY AWESOME THE EMAIL IN THE SIDE BAR IS NOW THE RIGHT ONE BUT TO REITERATE IT IS

writeorleftsubmit@yahoo.com

sorry i had to go all caps lock on you guys. it just needed some urgency.

            She is a musician. She is poor but still managing to smile. Her back is against the wall in more ways than one. But, for now, it is brick and grafetied down its side. She was never one for a life that wasn’t burdensome. Her taste in music is eclectic. She’ll play you any song you want to hear if you would only throw down a five. The guitar seems limp in her hands as she picks it up and begins to plays, at first softly and then louder so that the whole subway can hear. Or so she would like. In reality, she knows that no one is really listening, that they have their own lives; they are only walking by. And she knows that they may see her, disapprove of her, stare at her and maybe even pity her, but that they will never remember her. But, she keeps singing.

            She is frightened. She tries to take back what she said, but it’s hanging in the air like smoke. He comes closer. He was a good man. That’s what she tells her self. She tells herself to remember his eyes the way they used to be: light, joyful, and kind. The way they were before they filled with harshness. He is close now. She is struggling not to scream as he encloses around her. He throws her down, like he’s taking out the trash. She takes deep breaths and thinks about the makeup and the long sleeved shirts. He looks down at her, relentless. But she keeps breathing.

            They are friends. The stars act like their ceiling and the long, untrimmed grass like a pillow. The summer night surrounds the pair gently. And they laugh, quietly: joyful that summer is finally here. They are still learning the rudiments of life. They are still learning that life is not so perfect, so rife, as it once seemed. There is sound from with in the house. A mother and father at it again. They clasp hands. One shares the other’s pain. The same way they do when she visits her baby brother’s grave. The stars look more like debris now, because that’s what they really are: just bits of rock on fire. They realize how ugly everything looks when the covers are pulled away. They wish on the stars for a necromancer, a miracle, anything to take the pain away. But they keep laughing.

            We are a dying breed. We are seperated from the rest because we are different. We do not let ourselves fall, though we may skin our knees. We have learned that life is a tradgedy. We have learned that life is a delectable adventure. And we sit there, burnishing our stones, until they grow lighter, and glossier, and smoother, and clearer. And we keep living until we die.

pleasseee?

remember. the email is:

writeorleftsubmit@yahoo.com

i accept everything.

xoxo lauren

I’m getting flashbacks.

A touch;

A linger;

A sensation.

It’s killing me

Because I’m not your only;

I’m a third.

And three is truly a crowd.

And I don’t know why it hurt so bad:

A few moments

In the darkness of a stage.

I’ll be living off of them for weeks.

It’s her.

You touch her the way you touch me.

SHe’s laying on your chest.

She doesn’t deserve it.

If you cut her open you’d find

Filth and sludge and hate.

Her ugliness stems from her heart

And she’ll fool you, she always doeds.

She wants you

She calls herself a friend

She’d slit my throat

Because she always gets what she wants.

Flashback.

I touch you chest

You touch my side

You pull me close.

Flashback.

You pick me up.

I hold tight.

I weigh nothing at all.

Flashback.

Your nose brushes my bangs.

My lips yearn to touch.

My fingers fold over your neck.

I hang on to it while I watch

You with her

Her with you

Pick one and let it be me.

I shouldn’t want it

I care more than you do.

Don’t do this to yourself, I say.

But I’m a stupid girl.

God, you make me feel sick.

I feel it in my stomach

I barely know you

And you’re already under my skin.

Flashback.

You pull away.

My fingers linger with a thousand things

That I wish I would have said and done.

Why does everybody take me as
Stupid?
And not just me everyone.
Everyone thinks
Everyone is
Stupid.
They think we’re too
Stupid
To understand what’s going on.
They think that we don’t
Catch on.
That we can’t comprehend
When we can and
We do.

They think we’re deaf too!
Like we can’t hear outside this door.
That we can’t hear
Every
Single
Word
They say.

They think we’re blind.
They think we can’t see
The bad things.
They think that we don’t perceive
The things
Behind our back
And the things they
Think
We shouldn’t see.

They think that we can’t feel.
That we can’t cry.
That we can’t feel melancholy.
That we can’t just
Simply
Hold the burning
Stinging  
Scolding
Tears back.
That we can’t hurt or ache
Because we didn’t hear, see, or understand
These terrible things.

No matter how hard we try not to
We always end up seeing it.
We always end up hearing it.
And then we can’t help but understand it.
We’re not stupid.
They just think we are.

He cares about me.

He really cares about me.

And everything that I have ever read or seen,

Tells me that I should care too,

Though I’m not sure I do.

I can tell he thinks I’m beautiful,

By the way he holds me,

And then picks me up.

By the way I catch his eye

When my hair and makeup and clothes are all

Just right.

It’s amazing to me that he thinks that.

He doesn’t see me as a piece of ass,

One that he can conquer and lay claim to.

No. To him I am a person.

It’s nice to be human

And not meat.

He doesn’t mind when I confide in him about my home life

In fact I think he enjoys it,

Because I think we both know

That is the only way we let others in.

And I trust him.

He is so good and kind and thoughtful.

People always say he is “such a nice guy”.

He is the biggest, wildest goofball

But, in real conversation, he is meek, quiet and precise.

And isn’t that what I’ve kept saying to everyone?

That I’m just looking for a nice guy?

He is ugly.

I’ll lay it out flat.

Red acne accents his cheek bones.

His chin curves an odd V.

He is extremely thin and extremely tall,

And has very dark, bushy eyebrows.

But, does that make me shallow?

Does that make me vain?

I know I’m attractive.

Don’t I have to want to kiss him?

And not recoil at the thought of touching his face?

Isn’t that the difference between friendship and more?

I like him more when he holds my waist

From behind.

That way I won’t see his face.

And I won’t see it as well when I think

Oh, god. I’m leading him on.

And then I push him away.

I don’t see his face

Because I know he already goes through too much pain.

He adores me.

And I do not deserve it.

Not in the least.

He is a hundred times the person I will ever be.

And to tell you the truth, it’s nice to be held.

I should be with him.

Just look at Beauty and the Beast.

They worked out okay, right?

But that’s just a fairytale.

I can’t help feeling

That I won’t ever be happy,

That is with him.

He is everything I want

But I somehow want none of it.

Is that what all of those sappy romantic movies have been trying to tell me?

That you don’t know what you really want?

That what you thought you wanted,

You really didn’t want at all?

If that is so, I should have listened

Much

More

Intently.

    Once again Charlotte awoke in a cold sweat. Her bed sheets were tousled and entangled between her legs. Turning over, she looked towards a clock on her night stand. It read to her three o’clock in the morning. Why could she not get a single night’s rest. She couldn’t remember a night recently that she hadn’t been awoken. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t she just get some rest? Why wouldn’t these dreams- these nightmares- just leave her be?
    Well, it was because she was Charlotte Browner: bad luck followed her.
    Many people would just turn their noses at such an accusation, but swear to the dear Lord above it was true. How else could she explain all the mishaps that had come upon her over her twenty years she had been alive? There was none. It had started even the day she was born on that snowy December day in 1923.
    When she was born, Charlotte was a fuss. Her labor was long and painful, from what she heard, but eventually she did come into this world. And when she did, she screamed so long and hard that when they tried to hand her to her mother, her mother pushed her away for a moment. Even worse, she was clearly a red head which meant she was sure to give her parents trouble.
    Her father died six years later to the day from pneumonia. He left them with enormous wealth but no memories for his tiny, naive six year old. Every other girl had her daddy to run to when times turned hard. She missed him most desperately even today.

After that, her mother was different. Charlotte would find her sitting and staring out an open window for hours at a time with an eerie far off look in her eyes. Every birthday after was not only a birthday: it was an anniversary of a death.
    Her teenage years were difficult to say the least. She had no father, a mother too dazed to listen, a cocky older brother too full of himself to bother with her, and a little English Terrier who was the only confidante she could find.
    When she was sixteen, she met a boy. It wasn’t like she hadn’t had any crushes or fancies before this but, this was different. He seemed special and it turned out, that he was. His smile could light up a room. He had achingly beautiful smoke colored eyes. He was cocky, arrogant and at the same time all that she could of ever wanted. That much she could still remember. Now, sitting up in bed, she could only see those eyes. It seemed so long ago now.

In the light of the moon that shone in from outside her paned window, she cringed recollecting him. Well, they had fallen in love. She had been so stupid, so hopelessly blind with love. Now, in retrospect, it sickened her.
     On the seventh day of December of 1941, Pearl Harbor was attacked and not soon after that the nation entered into war.

She could still hear their voices ringing in her ears. “You can’t go.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me you won’t go.”

“I promise you, Charlotte i will not leave you.”

Then he held her while she softly cried in the sturdy protection of his masculine arms.

It was like nails to a black board for her now.

He had promised her. She had believed him. How silly. Well, what did he do? One day, without any warning, he was gone, off to fight “the good fight”.

Shaking the memories from her mind, or at least attempting to, Charlotte said a prayer for her dysfunctional family and for the troops that had made her life so tiresome. With that, she closed her eyes and tried to get a little more than a blink of sleep that night.

                                                        ***

Two years and eighty-one days later, a man stood, back against a building, one hand in a sling, the other holding a cigarette. He was dressed in his dress uniform, with a conventional army khaki hat atop his freshly cut brown hair. He was good looking to say the least, with a bitter smile to him. War does things to a man, one can’t explain unless you’ve seen what he’s seen or done what he’s had to do. 

Sixty-five days. Sixty-five days since he had taken a bullet to his arm crossing the Rhine River under heavy German fire. He was carried off with seven other men’s blood stained to his uniform. Germany had been hell: hell in every aspect of it. The man in the bed next to him had come later than him although he wouldn’t have even noticed, what with all the damn pain he was going through. The man in the bed next to him had seen Auschwitz.

“What the hell is an Auschwitz?” He had said trying to keep the obviously worn soldier upbeat.

“Hell fire,” the man said. “Killings by the thousand. You wouldn’t believe it even if I told you. Skin and bones and rags. Dressed in their pajamas. Bodies. Everywhere. Chambers. Hell fire.” The man stared off and continued to stare off for the next months that he had stayed there, only muttering ‘Auschwitz’ eerily every so often.

But, now this man was out of that prison of white and death, of only pleasantly pretty girls asking him, “Are you comfortable Mr. Parker?” or “Would you like some water, Jack?” All that was left of them was that blasted sling tied intricately around his arm.

Four days. Four days since Victory in Europe. Four days since the allies finally showed Hitler, and Mussolini, dead or alive, what the allies are made of. He’d been honorably discharged on account of the fact that they couldn’t use a wounded soldier in battle. A bus rolled in with a screeching halt. Jack Parker took a last inhale of the sweet tobacco before tossing the butt to the ground and grinding it into the pavement with the heel of his boot. Bag over his good shoulder, he boarded the bus, slightly limping, with five other men dressed like him, and two others who dressed in the Naval uniform who had come from the Pacific.

Jack took the first seat he could find which was near the back and put his bag on the ground by his feet being careful not to hit his arm which would cause serious, cursing pain to run through his body. As the bus started to move, he looked out the window and realized something. He was going back, not to far off Germany or foreign France but to his home town. To his past. A thought which made this soldier uneasy.
                                                    ***

The moon cast an eerie blue-white glow on the country dirt road that the bus passed noisily on, grinding the stray rocks into its tires. As the bus scurried pass, the trees cast abstract shadows on the few passengers in the automobile.

Head against the window, Jack Parker in his khaki service uniform, hat located somewhere else other than his head of chocolate locks, slept as peaceful as was possible for him. Even in his slumber he held his arm gingerly away from anything that would bump it or even touch it for that matter. It was involuntary by now.

Outside, the bus tires ran straight over a pothole in the road, sending the bus jostling along with this soldier’s arm. The arm wrest collided with his mending wound.

Immediately, he was awake, feeling the stabbing pain.

“Son of a—!” He grunted, biting off the last word as he let his teeth sink into his hand which had in a split second had transformed into a fist.

After a few seconds when the initial, immediate shock of the pain had subsided, he dared to lean his head back. He closed his eyes, his teeth were already clenched. Haven’t I been through enough?! Just one night— no: one hour of sleep. That’s all I’m asking for! He screamed in his head. To himself or to God— if there was such a thing— who knows? His mind’s voice turned soft. His tight pressed lips parted with a rush of air escaping that somehow resembled a sigh. Or do my crimes out number my graces?

He raised his head only to slam it back against the seat. The pain was subsiding a little now, though the grinding ache was going to be there for a very long while which meant he was going to be up for a very long while as well. Although, this pain was nothing compared to what he would endure if he let his mind wander too far.

His crimes. How many? Enough that he had been positive he was headed straight to hell before they had stopped the bleeding and dragged him away from the fight. But, then again, if there was no God, there could be no hell. That was a bit of a mercy. But, if a God and a hell did exist, though he doubted, he would have been shooting down there. In his mind, he knew he would not have fought the current dragging him under to be tortured, probably worse than any Jap or Nazi could ever do to him; he knew he deserved it.

He was a murderer. No, the war had not justified it. What was the definition of murder? He searched his head. It had been years since he’d held a book, let alone a dictionary. Murder: taking of someone or something’s life; killing. Yeah, that sounded right or something like that.

He could probably think of a mountain’s worth of other things he had condemned himself to but there was one that made the top of his list, the one it hurt to think about.

He had lied to, hurt and betrayed the only woman he had ever loved.

The throbbing inside his chest distracted his senses away from his aching arm.

Even worse, he was now headed back to that God forsaken town where she was surely forced to remain with no good explanation for his actions and no hope of her ever granting him any forgiveness.

Someone on this bus must have a gun. Maybe he could just end it now and get it over with rather than in three months when the regret and grief has overcome him, the bottle is empty in his hands and his pistol across the room smiles at him and lures him closer.

There was actually really no one in the bus. He counted the backs of their heads. There were five people in all, including himself and the driver. Sighing, he laid his head against the window. There would be no easy way out of this, as always.

He closed his eyes; they felt heavy now. 

The bus slowed to a stop with a hushed squeak. The door opened and a set of foot steps made their way down the isle.

“S’cuse me?”

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and turned his head. An old Negro man with a worn face stood in the isle next to Jack’s row.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

Jack looked around him. There was an open seat across from him, in front of him, behind him, in the front, adjacent to him, a few rows up, in fact every seat with the exception of four were open on that bus. He looked at the man who was staring at him pleasantly, too pleasantly for this time of night. It was almost eerie.

Maybe he would kill him.

“Sure.” 

“Thank you kindly.” The man took off his hat and took the aisle seat next to Jack. He sat straight spine with a twinkle in his eye and his hands folded on his hat.

Damn. He wasn’t the type to kill. This was just not Jack’s year. He leaned his head against the window, cold from the night’s chill outside. Within moments, his eyes grew heavy and they began to shut. The jostling bus rocked him like a cradle.

“It’s a fine night.”

Jack opened his eyes irritated. Really? He was going to make conversation now? Jack turned his head toward the man.

” ‘Cept for that full moon.”

“Are you talking to me?” Jack whispered. The man’s head was still straight forward, facing the back of the seat in front of him.

“Strange things happen on full moons. I’ve seen it myself. My whole life changed cause of a full moon.”

“That’s nice.” Annoyed, he turned back over to his window pillow.

“The name’s George.”

Opening his eyes once more, Jack saw a hand outstretched to him. Sighing, he decided to take it. “Jack.”

“What are your troubles, Jack?”

The pleasant disposition was over. Jack was just irritated now. “Is that how you always start conversations with strangers?”

“No. Just you sir. I see your troubles. Tell me, what plagues you son?”

“You don’t want to hear my horrors.”

This time the man looked around. “What are you? Afraid? Who here is going to hear ‘cept for myself?”

“Fine.” Jack crossed his arms like a three year old. He took a long pause.

“Well?”

“It’s just that I’ve seen a lot. It haunts me like any other soldier.”

“But, that is not what bothers you the most.”

“Well… no.”

“Tell me about her.”

Jack was taken aback. How did he know it was about a her? He seemed mystical in a way. Eerie. Omniscient. Scary. All knowing. He looked down and sighed again. This would keep him up all night. To hell with it.

His hands shook a little. “Charlotte.” Her name rolled off his tongue like honey, tasted like sugar and sounded like angels singing in the quiet air. “Her name was— is Charlotte.”

“Good.” The man relaxed a little in his seat. “Start at the beginning.”

***

The beginning. Well, to be honest, he remembered it like it was yesterday, really. He remembered everything. The way she looked, the way she smiled, the way she laughed, the way she walked, the way her eyes sparkled, the way her dress hugged her at all the right places. The way she very literally walked right into his life.

He had been new to the neighborhood. His family, mother, father and younger sister, had just moved in the day before. It was a slow and sweet summer. The town was nothing like busy Chicago where he had grown up. He had been absolutely sure he would hate it. The rest of his family had gone to explore the town and to walk through the park. He was alone and liked it. He had left his whole life behind in Chicago and was feeling truly alone, although he would never admit it. He had been seventeen and finally feeling like a man but at the same time, still  childish and arrogant.

There were several brown boxes in ‘his room’. He was working on putting some trinkets on a shelf when there was a knock on the door. He put down what he was doing to get it.

The next part, he remembered like the back of his hand. He turned the door knob and there she was, standing on his door step. He would never forget that moment. 

Her beautiful red hair fell in soft luscious curls that framed her heart shaped face. Her lipstick was dark, like she was trying it out for the first time. She had an emerald green dress on that stood out against her creamy skin. And when she smiled that first time, his heart stopped.

“Hello,” she said in a singsong way. She giggled a little when she said it, like she couldn’t believe she was actually doing this. 

He was speechless. “Um… hi.”

There was a brief but awkward pause. “My name is Charlotte Browner. I live down the street. I noticed you move in yesterday and I thought I would bring over something to welcome you into the neighborhood.”

He tore away from her eyes to finally notice the plate of lemon squares in her hands. Lemon squares, although delicious, could not hold his attention as long as her eyes.

“Please come in.” He held the door open for her like his father had taught him to. The room in which they stood was empty except for boxes which made the experience even more odd for him.

“Here,” he had said and took two sturdy boxes to the center of the room. He took the plate from her so that she could sit down and set the plate next to him on his box.

She sat on her box facing him biting her lip and grasping onto the edges of the box. She smiled warmly. “Well, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh gosh, sorry, it’s Jack Parker.”

“What year in school are you Jack Parker?”

“Just finished my eleventh year, uh, how about you?”

“Just finished my tenth.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “So we’re practically the same age.”

Her rose lips curved into a smile. “Practically.” She looked down at her slender nails. “Where did you move here from?”

“Chicago.”

Her eyes brightened. “Really? Oh, I’ve always wanted to go there. You know see the city lights. Get my fill.”

“It’s real pretty except for the Hoovervilles and soup kitchen lines.”

“Well, it can’t be too bad now with Roosevelt in office. We’ve been getting better.”

“Yeah, I suppose. I guess it’s just that I’m bitter.”

Her eyes softened. “Why?”

“My father lost his job. That’s why we moved.”

“Oh.” Neither knew what to say. He was so stupid for turning he conversation serious. She looked him in the eyes. “Say, why don’t I give you a tour of the town?”

And she did.

She took him everywhere. The historical places, the general store, the candy shop where she bought two pieces of licorice, the park. It was dusk when they sat down on top of the highest hill in the park. 

“This town isn’t very special to tell you the honest truth,” she stated. “I don’t want to be stuck here forever. I’m not going to be one of those girls getting married straight out of school and ending up trapped in here with a bunch of kids running around.  I’m going to the city.”

He laughed. “To do…?”

“Shut up! Don’t you dare laugh at me Jack! Well, I don’t know what I’ll do, maybe I’ll be a secretary or something, but the important thing is that I’ll be there.”

“I believe you.”

She turned to him and smiled playfully. “You had better or you’ll regret it.”

They both laughed into the sunset. “Well, we had better be getting home. My momma will want to know what I’ve been doing with a boy all this time.”

“Your father won’t care?” He teased.

She looked off. “He’s dead.”

“Oh.” He looked down mortified. Way to go. He heard a squeak and then raised his head. She was pushing away two stale tears.

He didn’t even think about it; he pulled her into his arms and patted her hair. It was the first time he realized that she was special. He just didn’t know how special.

She started pulling away. “I’m sorry. I’m so stupid. I cry over everything. Let’s get home.”

“No.” He stopped her. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

She turned her head and suddenly their faces were very close. He swallowed his pride and got up some nerve. “Can I kiss you Charlotte?”

She looked deeply into his eyes for a moment. “No.” And she headed down the hill, breaking his heart with every step.

***

It had been the first time he had ever been rejected and it hurt. A lot. But, he was determined to make her fall in love with him. He knocked on her door every single day. She would come down the stairs and he would be having tea with her mother or talking with her brother or sometimes she would answer the door and without even a hello he would pull her out onto the street and force her to walk around with him.

He wanted her more than anything else and what he wanted, he had to have.

They would laugh for hours together. They were the talk of the town the way they walked around together, not giving a care what anyone thought. It was summer and they were having the time of their lives. But, by the end of June, she still had not given in to him.

He was getting impatient. Every single night he would walk her home and stand at her door with her and ask if he could kiss her. And every night she would say no and close the door. It was driving him insane. It was her own fault anyhow. If she really didn’t want him to kiss her, she shouldn’t dress that way! Or smile like that or laugh like that or wear her hair like that! It was just unfair.

By the end of July, he was truly going mad. This wasn’t working. He walked her to her door that night. She looked ready for his question.

“Charlotte. Every single night, I walk you to your door and I ask you if I can kiss you and every single night you say no. And I’m going mad. You know how I feel about you. Your just teasing me and it’s cruel but. Charlotte I just can’t seem to leave you alone. So you know what? To hell with it. Tonight, I will not ask to kiss you.” She looked a little shocked. “I am going to kiss you.” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her in, grasping her beautiful hair between his fingers.

And you know what? She actually kissed back. 

He pulled away from her aggressively, all his anger coming out at this moment. “Now you can go inside.”

She smiled. “Who said I have to listen to you?” She wrapped her hand around his neck and pulled him down to her height where she kissed him.

“There.” She smiled coquettishly. “Goodnight.”

He watched her closed the door and then ran the whole way home.

They spent the rest of the summer in love. Kissing in the glow of street lights, going to the fair, running around, swimming in the lake. That August was perfect. 

Both of their parents had problems. Her brother was rowdy and always in trouble. He hung out at speakeasies with flappers. Her mother although kind was harsh and far off in many ways. Charlotte had to struggle with her father’s memory constantly. Jack’s father drank. The move and his job had taken a toll on him. He had taken a few swings at his mother. That was when Jack stepped in and took the bottle away, sending his baby sister, Lucy to her room with the door shut.

It melted into the school year. Jack turned eighteen in October and Charlotte seventeen in September. He watched her cry on her birthday. He carried her books between classes. She helped him with English and he helped her with Algebra. They taught each other how to love. December came. It was normal at first. The snow on her eyelashes made him love her even more.

***

The man scratched his head. “She sounds wonderful.”

Jack looked out the bus window. “That’s because she was. She’s all that I could ever want. She makes me want to be a better person.”

“Does she know that?” The man looked at him quizzically.

“No. Because it doesn’t matter. I can’t be a better person. I can’t be saved.” He looked down at his sling. 

“It sounded like she didn’t care about that.”

“She should of. Maybe then she would have stayed away from me.”

***

Pearl Harbor changed everything. At least, that’s when everything started going wrong. He was with Charlotte when they heard about it over the radio. The president’s address to the nation was on. He held Charlotte tight in his arm. Half way through the speech, Charlotte buried her head into his neck. He felt unstoppable in that moment, like he would do anything for her. And he would.

It was a few days after that when three of his friends came over, young, lively, bright and rough. He and Charlotte had been sitting at his round kitchen table. They didn’t even bother to take off their jackets; they just wanted to tell him the news.

They were going to enlist.

“Come on Jack! It won’t be the same fighting the Japs without you!”

“Yeah, Jack, I bet you could take on twenty with your bare hands!” They all laughed.

“Enlist with us. We’ll all be soldiers together.”

Jack had seen it in his mind at that moment. The glory: women waving handkerchiefs at them as they marched down the streets; people throwing roses; getting a silver star for valor; going out into the front to fight for his country with his very best friends.

Even better, getting away from his family, seeing foreign lands, shooting a gun, protecting his home.

He wanted it.

But, then he looked down at Charlotte. She was looked up at him with pleading eyes. So instead, he responded, “You know what? I’ll think about it.”

The guys laughed and mimicked him all the way out the door with little kissy noises as accents. When he shut the door, Charlotte was standing behind him. Her eyes were devastating. “You can’t go.”

“I won’t.” He smiled.

She wouldn’t take that. “Promise me you won’t go.”

He turned serious for her. “I promise you, Charlotte i will not leave you.”

Then, she found her way into his arms.

But, when Jack wanted something, he had to have it.

***

Two days later, it was still eating at him. He had to have it. It was so simple. He wanted it. He had to have it. It was dark. He had walked Charlotte home and given her a kiss, the same as any other night. Was this to be it? Walk her home everyday. Get a kiss everyday. Was that all he had to offer? No. He could be serving the greater good: his country. All of his friends were leaving tonight for the city where they would be examined by doctors and what have you. They were all meeting at Will’s house soon.

It was like an itch he just had to scratch. He just had to do it. He didn’t even think. He just knew that he wanted it. He had to have it.

So he quick packed a bag and grabbed his coat and gloves. Fully dressed, he snuck into Lucy’s room. He loved her dearly. He moved away her light blonde hair to reveal her slumbering face. He kissed her forehead.

But, that was it. He snuck out his window, disturbing some snow on the roof and ground. He ran to Will’s and hopped on his truck just as they were leaving. No one knew what he had done. And in the morning when they realized he was missing, he would already be gone.

***

The old Negro man raised an eyebrow. “Just like that you left?”

Jack wasn’t proud of it. “Just like that.”

“Not one word to Charlotte?”

“No.”

“Not one letter?”

“No.”

“Not even a note?”

“No! Okay? I’m damned for doing that to her!” His voice rose.

“Hush now. I don’t mean to get you in a huff, son. You know there are people on this bus trying to get some sleep.”

Jack sighed heavily and sunk into his seat. “I was so stupid back then. Just thinking about the way I acted makes me want to tie a rope around my neck.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I was just so selfish! So self-centered!”

“You were no good for Charlotte. You should have never done that to her. She didn’t need that burden.”

“I get it.” His voice was cold and full of regret as he reminisced. “I didn’t deserve her back then.”

“And you do now?” The old man asked leaning forward in his seat.

Jack looked out the window for a moment thinking as the scenery flew by. “It doesn’t matter now.”

***

War wasn’t what he had planned. There were no red roses in the blood of his fellow soldiers. The only women there cried and held on to their dead children. The air raids kept him up at night. It was kill or die, especially when you can see down the enemy’s gun, it misfires and you get one single solitary second to raise your gun and fire before he kills you first.

The mere thoughts of it gave him shivers. He didn’t like to think upon it. The one thing he would mention was that the only thing that kept him going on and not giving up the struggle was the thought of Charlotte. And how he wanted more than anything to see her face one more time. That was his goal: see her one more time.

When he didn’t have enough food to eat, he would imagine her eyes. When he suffered from insomnia, he would hear her laugh. When a soldier fell on him, dead, he would feel her hair beneath his figures. She had kept him alive.

Something which she did not owe him.

War dragged on slowly in a monotonous cycle. The only changes were in backdrops of scenery. Within his first year, his three best friends, his mates, his brothers, Will, Ben and John, were killed. He was alone in this world and it was all his fault.

Quickly, he had become depressed and suicidal. One memory was prominent in his mind. It was a battle. Everything had gotten to him, so to speak. He had no friends. He was antisocial. He was without love. He was without a woman. He was without a sweetheart. He was without someone to go back to. No one would care if he lived or died.

So, in the middle of a battle, in the middle of this blood bath, he stopped fighting. He let his arm fall and stood there, waiting for a bullet. In fact, he prayed for a bullet and not to the heart. He wanted to get shot in a spot where death would be long and painful. He deserved it.

But you know what? No one shot at him. For a whole minute, completely unarmed, no one shot at him. There truly was no God.

***

The old man tapped his knee. “You know what they say. Dying is easy; Living is hard.”

Jack ran his good hand through his hair. “No. Living is torture.”

The sun had begun to rise on the rolling spring green hills out the window. It had taken him that long to get it all out. He was surprised. “So now you know,” he said. “Don’t know why you wanted to know in the first place.”

The old man turned towards him. “To help you, son.”

“Help me?” Jack said, his thoughts becoming angry and frustrated. “I can’t be helped!”

The negro was calm though. “That may be but, personally, i do not think so.”

“Then tell me, what am i to do?”

“Listen to me son, you are alive, for whatever reason it is. The lord gave you that gift. don’t waste it.”

He paused for a moment and thought about it. Could he tell that he had been thinking about suicide a lot lately? How could he though? Then, it suddenly just sparked. He opened his eyes wide. “You want me to go to her?” Jack hissed.

“You act like that’s impossible! You got two legs, son. Use em. It ain’t too hard.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Jack paused and tried to find the words that were escaping him. “I don’t know if i have the strength to see her again and be able to walk away when she says she hates me.”

“Then don’t walk away.”

***

The teapot screamed, clear and sharp into the silence that surrounded Charlotte in the kitchen. Their maid was doing wash so Charlotte volunteered herself to make her mother some Earl Grey. It always seemed to soothe her. By now, the doctors had come and gone. Not much could bring her haunted mother peace, only an open window, a blue sky, and tea. Not much else.

Charlotte tipped the pot so that the steaming liquid fell easily into the china tea pot. Once filled, she set it on a polished silver tray and walked out onto the porch, where the mid afternoon sun was blotched by gentle clouds. Her mother was sitting in her chair, getting old, frail, and silvery. She was covered by her bed quilt; she had the chills today. Charlotte looked at her and wanted to cry. What had happened to them? She couldn’t remember a time she had been happy.

The last time the doctor had come, he had sat Charlotte down and recommended a hospital for special care. Maniac depression, he had told her, her mother had maniac depression. No she would not put her mother in a mental ward. No thank you. She was the only one she had left— her brother was no where to be found. He had left one day and not come back. Her mother was the only one she had. She was the only one her mother had. She couldn’t let go— not yet.

The tea bag dropped gracefully into the cup. It was followed by a waterfall of steaming liquid. Charlotte looked up at her mother. She could not help seeing a future self in her mother. Was this what was to become of her? It frightened her.

She placed the cup in her hand. “Mother? Your tea. Mother?” Her mother finally acknowledged her and took a sip. When she finished, Charlotte gave her a plate to set in her lap so that she could set her tea down. She kissed her mother’s wrinkled cheek, although she did not seem to notice it. Sighing, she sat down in a chair on the porch next to her mother.

If it were not for Victory in Europe, Charlotte would have believed that there was no hope left in the world anymore. Indeed, the world seemed hopeless.

After a while on the porch, she gave up and went up to her room. Her vanity welcomed her as she pulled out the pins from her hair and messed her red locks as they fell. Taking a brush to it, she fell back into the silence and rhythm of her home. There was a small, ratty, stuffed animal in the corner of her room. Both happiness and sadness filled her. It was a gift from her father when she was born. She had always cherished it. Sadness seeped into her soul.

Suddenly, she sighed heavily and set the down the brush. No. She was finished with this. She was done feeling sorry for herself. This was a new day. The war was finally over. They could finally begin their lives again. She opened her wardrobe and slipped on her prettiest dress for the occasion.

Then, from downstairs, she heard a knock at the door. Feeling light, she bounced to answer it.

Before her was the blond head of hair, she called Lucy. She looked up at her with pleading, feeling chocolate eyes. “Oh Charlotte!” she swooned into the foyer.

Charlotte couldn’t help but smile. She loved her as a sister. And as such, she consoled her as an older sister would. “What is it this time?” Charlotte laughed and ushered her into their parlor.

Lucy was growing into her figure. Once just a pretty face, now, she had pretty little curves to match. Truly, she was the belle of their little town. 

“Well,” she began. “Do you remember when Bobby Gosling carried my books for three whole weeks?…” Her voice droned off. Boys, boys, boys. Oh this child. If she had a nickle for every time a boy gave her attention they would be a wealthy bunch of fools. 

Still, Charlotte grinned and nodded her head, listening to the girl’s story. It was what she would have wanted at that age. 

When Jack left— how it hurt just to think his name— Lucy had found a refuge in Charlotte. Lucy and her brother had been very close; she had just about as hard of a time accepting what had happened as Charlotte.

Apparently Lucy had finished her story, for it was very quiet. Lucy looked down at a ribbon on her dress. “Do you still think about him?”

Charlotte sighed. What a hard time this girl was having. “Sometimes.”

“Did he ever write you?

“No.” Charlotte’s voice was uncommonly icy.

“Me neither.” Lucy pursed her perfect lips. “I cannot help but still love him. He is and always will be my brother. My big brother, at that. While he was here, he always took care of me. I must give him that… I do love him. I can’t stop.”

“That is completely understandable and admirable, Lucy.”

There was another pause. She looked up at her with caramel brown eyes. “Do you still love him, Charlotte?”

She shut her eyes hard. The pain of remembering ached in her abdomen. “As you said, I love him. I can’t just stop. I wish i could.”

***

Lucy left, still young and lively. Charlotte wished she could say the same. She hated how much time had altered her. Somehow she wished she could go back to that summer: it had been perfect.

Oh how she wished she could hate him. She wished she could just throw out his memory and be done with him. She wanted to hate him. But he would never let her win. Hate would have been so much easier than this.

Charlotte rocked slowly in a chair on the porch. Sitting next to her mother again. The porch faced the West. She loved it because no matter what, she could always see a sunset, a perfect ending. There was a slip of a path that led to the not so busy small town street. Looking out now, she could see someone walking down that street. He was turning down their path.

No.

She stood up just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. In moments, she found herself ten steps down from the path and had no idea when she had gotten there. She looked over her shoulder at her mother still on the porch, just sitting there like a vegetable. He was halfway to her now.

The problem was, she could bear to let him get any closer than that.

So with that thought, she stopped him. “What are you doing back here, Jack?”

He looked up, almost surprised. He still had that same brown hair she remembered. It was still the same face. The same body. No limbs missing. He seemed fine except for what seemed to be an arm injury. But he was different. He looked older, tired. His eyes weren’t as bright.

“Hello to you too Charlotte.”

***

Dear God she was beautiful. His memories did not do her justice at all. His memories of her were not accurate to this flower blooming before him. In his memories she was coy, shy, and unsure of herself and her new womanhood. He saw a full woman before him now.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him again. But, now she crossed her arms lightly.

“I’m home.”

“Yes, I can see that.” She was still bitter. That ate at the back of his head. She had every right to be bitter though. He should have been more prepared for this.

“I’m alive.”

***

Charlotte couldn’t decide whether she should be disappointed or overjoyed by this. Just looking at him made her want to punch him and hold him all at the same time. She held her composure though.

“Yes,” she said after a pause for thought.

Why did he even come back? She meant nothing to him.

***

The long awkward pause that passed between them hung in the air. It was thick and heavy, almost like laundry hanging out to dry. Before they could talk for hours. Now they had nothing to say to one another and everything to say at the same time. He just couldn’t wrap his mind around what had taken place between them.

His eyesight moved to the house. On the porch, there was a figure rocking back and forth in a quilt. No. It couldn’t be. 

“Is that… Is that your mother, Charlotte?”

He saw the pain flash in her eyes and immediately regretted saying anything. “Yes,” she said. “Everything has gotten worse since you left.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

She swallowed a little. “Maniac depression, the doctor says. They say she dying.” He was surprised to hear a laugh. “I never though someone could die of a broken heart.”

There was another pause. He could tell that she was no longer open to the topic of her mother. He allowed her that. He stood there, searching his mind for the right way to say all that he had come to say. He saw her open her mouth a little. She was going to speak. She was going to send him away. His chance was sailing away from port and never coming back. He spoke suddenly, before she could.

“Charlottle the reason I came here is that… well… I… when I was on the bus last night— I met this man. A spooky sort of man… but that doesn’t really matter does it? What really matters is what I came here to say. And what I came here to say is…”

“Please spit it out Jack.”

“I came for you,” he blurted.

She stared at him blankly.

“What I mean to say is that I came back here for you. That—“

“No,” she said, her voice and face were stern and fierce. “No don’t even try that. Not now Jack. Have you forgotten what you did to the people you left behind? Or were we supposed to just pretend that it never happened?”

“No…”

“Did you even go home yet?”

“No. I—“

“There are no excuses for that Jack Parker. Don’t even try. If you think you did a number on me, you should see Lucy.”

Lucy. It felt like he had forgotten. He pretended hard that he hadn’t.

She continued. “You will not be allowed back on this property until you do so Jack. She deserves better than this and you know it. She’s just a girl! You march yourself over there and hug her, tell her that you missed her terribly and ask her how her life has been these past years, for starters.”

She folded her arms with a decided nod. Then, she turned away and walked back up the porch steps and into the house, closing the door behind her.

He should have said that he wanted to do all those things to Charlotte. He wanted hug her (and kiss her), tell her that he had missed her terribly and ask her how her life had been these past years, for starters. But, he knew that she was so incredibly right. He remembered that about her now. He turned, picked up his bag with his good arm and walked down the street, then four blocks over to his red brick house with blue shutters and a little blond head of hair waiting inside.

Just like he said he wouldn’t, he walked away.

***

“Hello?” Jack called into a seemingly empty house. “Anyone home?”

    He prayed that no one would answer. He prayed that he would have a few moments alone to prepare. But, he remembered how many times he had thought there was no God and realized his efforts were futile.

   There was a soft creak from upstairs, slow and careful.

   “Hello?” He called in that direction.

   Slowly like unveiling a prized painting, the edge of a nose peered around the wall by the stairway. A light blond curl hung around the corner of the wall. Brown eyes met his. Her voice was no more than a whisper, childish and meek. “Jack?”

   He nodded feverently to her. In a split second she was bounding down the stairs and into his arms. She hit his bad arm. He cringed from pain but didn’t care. His baby sister. He could barely believe it. He lifted her with only his one good arm and twirled her in an embrace. She was so petite still. He put her down to get a good look at her, overwhelmed with joy.

   Dear God. She looked like a woman. She had curves and was wearing a little lipstick. He felt the intense urge to take a sheet from the linen closet and conceil her in it from the world, namely boys.

   “I’m so happy you’re home!” Her arms wrapped around his torso again, bumping his bad arm, which he couldn’t ignore any longer; he sounded his pain. “Oh I’m sorry.” Upon examining him she finally notice his sling. “Oh Jack! What happened to your arm?” Her voice was very worried.

   He smiled. “Wipe that look off your face. It’s the reason I’m home. I was shot back in Germany.” Her hand covered her mouth innocently in surprise. “Nevermind that. Look at you! Since when did you grow up?”

    “Since you left,” she responded to his rhetorical question.

    There was a little, sad silence. “I’ve missed so much,” he said somberly. “I’m sorry for doing that to you, Lucy.”

    “All I care is that you came back. That’s what matters.”

    “Tell Charlotte that,” Jack let slip out.

    Lucy’s eyes widened almost immediately. “Oh, this is perfect.” He had expected her to say something different. “I’ll put on some tea and we’ll talk.”

    “Good idea. For starters, tell me about your life, these past years. I want to know everything.”

***

    Oh she told him everything. A good two-hours-and-four-cups-of-tea-everything. Jack still felt like he had missed everything though, and he had.

    There was a little silence now. She seemed to have caught him up. “Now about you and Charlotte,” she said.

    If he were a dog, his ears would have perked. “What about us?”

    “You know what,” she said, a little smug.

    “Oh, you mean how she hates me and kicked me off her property? She was as cold as ice to me Lucy.”

    Lucy gave him a sympathetic pout. “That’s very odd.”

    “Why should it be odd when I broke her heart? I deserve this.”

    “No. Not that.” Lucy said. “When I spoke to her earlier today, she said she still loved you.”

    His head rose slowly.  “What?”

    “Or at least she implied it. Heavily.”

    “I’m not going to propose to her based on an implication.”

    “Propose?” Lucy squeeled. “Oh now you have to go to her! A wedding is just what we need in this town! And you know if you two marry, I must be the maid of honor. My friends will be so jealous.”

    It was too late though. Jack had given up. “No. I won’t do it again. I have to accept that we are over. That we had something back in highschool. That because of that we don’t have something now. It’s over. I don’t deserve her.”

    “Don’t you believe in second chances?” She squeezed his hand.

    “No,” he answered plainly.

    “Then what do you call that injury of yours?”

    “I don’t know. Fate? Retribution?”

    “You know you don’t believe a word you just said. It was a second chance. Whether or not you believe in them, you still get them. Take it while you can. Maybe it’s not your second chance. Maybe it’s hers.”

***

He really came back. Charlotte fought her minds urge to wrap itself around the thought.

It was dark out now. She had ushered her mother inside and put her to bed quietly. She left their maid to attend to her. Now Charlotte was in the silent calm of her room. She had not undressed. She had not brushed her hair. She had closed the door, sat down on her bed and stayed there.

Charlotte could still see him in her mind: dress uniform, brown hair, heather gray eyes, tanned skin. She had forgotten how attractive he was. For some reason, she found him even more so injured.

No. She pushed the thought from her mind. No he had still hurt her. He had still left without so much as a goodbye. But, hadn’t that been years ago? How long would this go on for? Hadn’t she been taught forgiveness in Sunday school? She was too stubborn. That was her bad luck showing through.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. It was through the window, down at the street. A figure. It turned down the path. There was small puffs of smoke coming from it. It stopped in the middle of the path and just stood there. She told herself it wasn’t him.

***

The burning end of the cigarette was near his fingers now. He took one last sweet puff of smoke and threw the butt to the ground. He step on it to put it out.

There was a light on in her room. It made the situation, what he was here to do, more real. It scared him. But, he had to do it. There would be no more cowardice from him. He was going to finally start acting like a man.

Jack bent down and picked up a rock. Planning to toss it towards her window he looked up. She was already there, looking like an angel with the light behind her. The rock just slipped out of his hand. He moved his arms as if to say ‘Here I am.’ She turned, then disappeared from sight.

The front door opened with out a sound and she stepped out in the same fashion. She met him in the middle of the path. For a moment, there were no words.

Then, “I see that you spoke to Lucy.”

“I did,” he said, nodding. “I wouldn’t be back here if I hadn’t.”

“She’s missed you terribly.”

“I’ve missed her just as much.” There was a strange sense of awkwardness in their conversation. He saw that she couldn’t meet his eyes. It was now or never. He wasn’t so good with the never.

So he just said it, said it like it was an everyday sort of thing that she already knew. “Charlotte, I don’t know what the use of saying how sorry I am for what i did to you is. I don’t think that saying that will make it any better or that it will make you understand how miserable I feel because of it. But, if you want me to leave. I’ll leave. If you want me to say nothing at all, I’ll be silent. And if you want me to say how sorry I am, I’ll say it a thousand times.”

For a few minutes, she just looked at him. There was no emotion, response, just thinking— he could see that in her eyes. He tried to patient. Really he did. But, this was taking too much out of him, this waiting. He took a chance. He touched her, lightly on the arm. It seemed to shock her, like waking someone up from a dream. “Please say something,” he said.

She opened her mouth but there were no words.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he tried again.

“Tell me why,” she said finally.

“Because I was stupid. Because I had wanted to be the hero of my story so badly that i couldn’t see that I was already doing that here. That you needed me here. Because I didn’t appreciate you like I should have. Pick any one of those and you will have your reason.”

He noticed that his hand was still on her arm. So he let it drop, finding it a little awkward there. She noticed how it dropped. Her eyes followed it. It took her a second but she took a step closer, landing her close to him. It was probably on accident but she didn’t move. He noticed their height difference. He was taller than her. Her face was near his chest, a little higher than it. It was a comfortable height for him.

Then, her hand, shakily raised. It look like it was trying to accomplish something but it was too feeble to do so. Finally, it rested upon his abdomen. Her face was turned down. He wanted to see her face so badly. He wanted her to look up at him. He wanted their faces close.

“Can I kiss you Charlotte?”

Her face turned up, just the way he had wanted it to. “Yes.”

So he did. He grabbed her waist and pulled her towards him easily. He pressed his lips against her, just the way they were meant to. He could feel her smile.

She pulled away and started to laugh. His insides turned inside out. It had been a while since he’d kissed anyone. Maybe he was out of practice. But would she be so cruel as to laugh at him? Or maybe she was just going to walk away now. Maybe this was the retribution he had been anticipating. It made him feel sick.

“What?” he asked. He couldn’t help it.

“It’s the oddest thing. I feel… well, I feel lucky.”

“And is that new for you?”

“Yes. It really is.” She buried herself into him. He could feel her laugh again but this time it was more bitter.

“What is it now?”

It took her a moment to answer. “What happened to us, Jack?” Her voice was oddly sad. It reminded him of when she talked about her father. Especially that first time.

He swallowed back a little emotion. “Life got in the way.” He felt her hold on tighter. “But it wont anymore. I promise.” He whispered into her hair.

“You promise?” She whispered back.

“I promise, Charlotte.”

And this time he meant it.

***

The squeaky door to the bus opened. The driver didn’t even look at the man who boarded. He simply closed the door once he had climbed the stairs and kept moving forward to the next stop that night. He had no bags, no coat, no purpose aboard this bus. Still, he was there. He walked slowly down the isle; he was an old man who had seen plenty. He did not look at anyone in the seats; he just walked down to a row with a single man in it. He looked at him and smiled eerily.

“S’cuse me? Do you mind if i sit here?”

    The Schaumberg Mall was not unlike any other mall in the United States. There were the usual creeps that just seemed to wander around without a point. There were the hypoactive shoppers who never seemed to cease power walking. You know, the ones who look as though they are in an obstacle course and not a mall. Then, of course, there were the teens that went around in little cliques, just like in school, mainly circulating around Abercrombie and Hollister and such.  They all seem to look the same: the girls have straightened hair and form-fitting clothes and the guys wear sweatshirts or tees and some sort of jean. You can’t tell them apart. There were the moms on overload, dragging their wandering young ones around. Some had even resorted to using the classic child leash. Over in a corner by the fountains, sat the Emos and the Goths. They all just kind of sat there, staring into space, which tended to creep many people out. Random salespersons strolled around trying to find people to sell to but most failed miserably.
    Christina witnessed all of this from behind the glass window of ‘Sixteen’ clothing store she had somehow managed to end up working long, and boring hours at. Every single day was the same: fold, check out, receipt, bag, clear out the dressing rooms, fold, check out, receipt, bag, clear out the dressing rooms, over and over and over again. , her nagging manager always getting on her back for “slacking”, supposedly.
    She didn’t know why she didn’t just quit: it may have been for a number of reasons.
    From Christina’s spot behind the register facing straight out of the store, she could see everything: the Macy‘s at one end, the Hollister and the Abercrombie and Fitch next to it, the Caribou Coffee directly opposite of ‘Sixteen’, the Baskin Robbins to the right of that, and the Sears all the way to the other end. She could see everyone and what they were doing. Somehow, it interested her. She would sit there and just observe these little people rushing by.  It was oddly amusing.
    Or it may have been that she needed the $5.50 an hour for the addiction she had to Caribou Coffee. Actually, it wasn’t that Christina had an addiction to the coffee; it was that she had an addiction to what was there. In fact, she didn’t even think their coffee was even good but she would go there everyday for the rest of her life if it still meant that she had the chance to at least say hello to the person who held her heart.
    Though, he didn’t even know her name, much less who she was.
    Everyday on her break, she would grab her purse from the back and head over to Caribou Coffee. There she would wait her turn in line, all the while keeping her eye on that certain someone and rehearsing in her head little witty comments she had come up with while working that day. Eventually, she would be at the register, her heart beating, face to face with him. He had piercing blue eyes that stared into her soul every single time her uttered the words, “How can I help you?” By then, she was at a loss for words and all those flirty remarks she had dreamed up were gone. She would then blurt out what she wanted, which was always the same which just mad her seem even more boring than she already was.  The beverage of her choice was a fruity iced tea drink that she didn’t have the slightest idea of how they made. She would ask him that someday. If ever. His dirty blonde curls would move with his head. He didn’t have an afro. God no! Christina found that such a turn off. No, his hair was perfect. It was just short enough so that you could still see his curls but not long. He looked like a surfer. Although, Christina was fairly sure there were no surfers nor beaches in Schaumberg, Illinois. Then he would say, not even looking her in the eye, “ That’ll be $3.78.” She would hand him her money and he would give her the change. When he set the small change into her hands, they would touch, sending a sensation throughout her body, all the way down to her bubble gum pink toes. Then he would tear off the receipt with a customary handwritten thank you and his name, which was Matt, smile and say, “Have a nice day,” at once turning away from her like he didn’t even care about her, which he tragically didn’t. Then all happiness would stop because then she would have to leave him to deal with the coffee jerk. After receiving her drink, she would sit down at a smaller table with only two chairs near enough to the register where he worked to be seen but far enough away so that she wouldn’t be bothered by a child of one of the deranged mothers that have been described previously. There she would sit sipping on her drink, flipping through a magazine, trying to look as cute as possible, and thinking up other things to say to him.
    Her friends thought she was insane. She probably was but she didn’t care. She couldn’t help how she felt!
    It was a Tuesday night, right after school, when her life changed. Being a Tuesday, the mall was basically dead. Christina was dressing a mannequin in the front window. She slipped the top on the figure, a cream peasant top. She went to the back of it to fix the shirt where it had bunched. After smoothing out the ripples, she looked up only to see a pair of ice blue eyes staring back. Her heart nearly stopped. It was honestly a wonder that she didn’t collapse. At the moment their eyes met his pair dropped back down as if nothing had happened. Christina moved to the mannequin next to this one and began preparing it, all the while trying to figure out what had just happened to her.  
    He didn’t look her way again all that night which almost put Christina into depression. It was like letting a dog lick a steak but then ripping it away and eating it yourself: harsh, cruel reality.
    The next day she worked, she was folding clothes. Christina managed to steal a small peek at Caribou Coffee and low and behold, what did she encounter? Those big blue eyes once more ricocheting off of Christina and to some other place that she couldn’t remember the name of but that didn’t even matter because that wasn’t important. He was looking at her. That Tuesday night wasn’t an accident. She felt like she could fly.
    Christina worked the next night that week. So did Matt. Oh, how she loved the way his name rolled off her tongue like honey.  She was crouched behind the counter like a mad woman but she didn’t care. What would she do if he looked her way again?  What was she supposed to do? With no older sibling, she had been left on her own with such problems. Here goes nothing…
    Shakily, she stood up, acting as though she had been looking for something. She busied herself with a few receipts that needed to be filed. Just as she opened the folder for material like that, she took the plunge: she looked up. Like an echo, there they were again, piercing through her soul like some sort of x-ray or laser beam but much more defined, and beautiful.  This time was different though. This time their gazes held. Christina desperately searched her mind for something to do but, it was no use. She was paralyzed in his stare. She managed to smile at him, but then, involuntarily looked down at the manila folder in her hand.
    Before she left the mall that night, she stopped over at Caribou Coffee. Just water. That was all she needed.
    There was no one there. The mall was basically silent by this time. She walked straight up to the register where Matt was stationed.
    “Hi,” She managed to get out meekly.
    “Hi,” he said, flashing a set of pearly whites at her. “What can I get you?”
    Of, course. She had forgotten the actual reason she was there. “A water, please.”
    Matt walked over to the fridge behind him and grabbed a small bottle of water. He walked back to the register with her bottle. “I see you’re changing it up today,” he commented, beginning to ring it up.
    Christina stood there confused.  She raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded toward the bottle. “The water?” he said. Oh. He meant the water. Gotcha. She was still confused.
    “What do you mean?” She asked.
    “You usually order our fruit tea lemonade: you’re getting water.”
    Duh. How could she not of gotten that? He probably thought she was a retard now. “Oh, sorry, I’m kind of tired. My mind’s moving slowly,” she lied an excuse.
    “I see,” He said, ripping off the receipt. Grabbing a pen from beside the register, he began to write his thank you. “Should I be expecting anymore surprising drink requests from you?” He finished his name on it.
    “I don’t know,” Christina shrugged. “We’ll see.”
    That was their first real conversation together. Christina replayed it in her mind all that night. It was bliss.
    Every day after, Christina went to Caribou Coffee as with her usual schedule. But, it wasn’t usual. The next day after the “Water Incident”, after ordering water, she received a note on her receipt. It was almost like a Hallmark card or something. On top it read, “To: Water Girl”, the actual receipt followed and then at the bottom it said, “What did tea ever do to you? -Matt”.  It was wonderful. She smiled as soon as her eyes fell upon the handwritten words.
    The second day, she received a receipt with a top ten list of why she should go back to drinking tea. The third day, her receipt had a dead fish on it with a charming little caption that read, “SAVE THE FISH! You’re drinking all the water!” She couldn’t help but laugh.
    On the fourth day, she gave in and ordered the tea. He said nothing. He just smiled to himself as he rang it up and wrote his note. The receipt said, “I win.”
    On the fifth day, there was no note. Christina had to call in sick that day. She felt like she was going to die: of course, she wouldn’t work feeling so. Sadness overcame her when she came to the realization that no blue in her room, in the rainbow even could compare to his blue and she wouldn’t be seeing such a wonderful shade today.
    On the sixth day, fully rested, she went back to work. When she made her trip over to Caribou Coffee, Matt looked up and smiled. “Why weren’t you here yesterday?”
    “Sick,” she answered simply.
    “Oh. Are you alright now?”
    “Much. But, I did miss my Caribou Coffee yesterday,” she smiled.
    “Well, let me guess what you want to order…” He teased.
    “Fruit tea lemonade… sweetened,” the recited in unison which made them both laugh.
    “Yeah, I’ll take that,” she added sweetly.
    He turned around and began making the drink she ordered. After ringing it up, he handed her the receipt. Thanking him, she began to walk out. Christina looked down as she opened the door. Seven good reasons why she should never be sick again.
    The seventh day after the “Water Incident”, she headed up the line once more. Every time she thought about him, her stomach would go into Olympic gymnast mode. The very sight of him made her blush. He treated her like any other customer though. Except for the whole extremely personalized receipt thing. On this seventh day, her receipt didn’t even have his name or thank you. All there was, at the very bottom of the receipt in smaller handwriting that usual, was “Guess what.” Christina turned around to look at him quizzically but he was already helping another customer. Maybe she would get the answer tomorrow.
    On the eighth day, she could barely wait to get to Caribou Coffee, but she was disappointedly working late. By the time she got there, the mall was closing down and she was very literally the last customer. A brief hello was spoken. He was acting odd. He barely even looked at her. Her heart dropped within her. Her drink was given to her. He took a minute more than usual to write his note but when she was given it; she was rudely interrupted by an announcement over the speaker system that said that the mall was now closing.
    “Oh, God,” she said looking at her cell phone. “I got to go.” She began to head out the door. Opening the door, she looked down on the receipt. Christina stopped halfway through the door. She couldn’t even make it out the door.
    At the bottom of her receipt, there, in his perfectly perfect handwriting, were the most wondrous words that had even been written. They filled her whole body with such emotion that she didn’t even know what to do with herself. They were: “I think I want to be more than just a coffee guy to you.”
    Her head managed to turn back in his direction. He was there, still behind the counter, with a look of anticipation on his face, waiting for her reaction. She gulped and managed to find her voice. She walked back to the counter. “You forgot something,” she got out casually.
    He blinked. Their eyes were frozen in each others. “What?”
    “This.” Before even she knew it, she had cupped his face with her hands and was kissing him over the counter. It was all that she had day-dreamed of for so long. The most surprising of it all was that he kissed her back. The sunshine she had felt in her soul was lost when he tore away. He smiled at her. He came out from behind the counter. There he took her into his arms. She fit there like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle. It felt wonderful, feeling so safe and protected. He tipped her head up to kiss her again, but before he could, she said, “Guess what?”
    He smiled. “What?
    “I think you already are.”