A Non-love love story
Love. What can you say about it that has not already been said? It's possibly the most often mentioned subject in literature, poetry, lyrics or movie scripts.
It's tedious to write about love. I actually vehemently dislike love stories. Rom-coms, tween novels about vampires and humans in the throes of pale, teenage passion or the ever popular romantic dramas about overcoming illness or pain because, you know, love.
I roll my eyes exasperatedly as I say this in my inner monologue; the background noise to my daily commute. I smile at myself as I leisurely drive through long spanning roads with green and golden views of the wine valley I pass on my way to work. Today's music choice is a beautiful instrumental medley of... some composer I found online. By accident, no less. But it serves as a perfect theme song for the thoughts running through my head.
Momentarily, I close my eyes. I'm trying to remember what his face looked like when I saw him for the last time. I remember exactly what his eyes looks like. His nose. His beautifully curved mouth. But I can never remember what his face looks like as a whole. Like a puzzle I can't solve. I hate that.
My favorite part of driving to work every day is reminiscing about the night we met. A day I will always remember. Parts of it anyway. I was shamelessly inebriated when I approached him at a dive bar on a particularly freezing February evening in 2016. My body shoved into a blue evening gown, hair matted from wind and rain; I found myself standing next to him, awkwardly trying to hold a drunken conversation with the stranger I found myself inexplicably attracted to.
To this day, I remember exactly how I felt around him. It was a strange, glorious high, unparalleled to anything else in the entire universe. I felt blissfully intoxicated, addicted, positively drunk - not only on alcohol, but on this palpable desire that oozed from my pores.
Since that moment, my engagement ring felt like handcuffs.