CHRONICLES OF LOVES FOREWARNED “This book is fiction and many things have been changed in fact to try to make it a picture of a true time…”
“Writers are always selling somebody out…”
9: Due Date I remembered when I would be surrounded by friends this late at night in an office. Not anymore. Now not even colleagues stay past sundown. How times have changed. How I’ve changed. “How is he, Val?” “He who?” “Whoever you’re dating these days.” He smiled like Lucifer in the flesh. Only Teller could say such things. And he wasn’t Teller. “I’m not dating anyone these days.” “Wow. How do times change.” I remembered a time when Dawn worked here with us, too. Not anymore. That was before her breakdown and yuppie existential crisis. Now there were only the two of us. Even the janitor had left for the night. How times changed. “How are the wedding plans coming along?” Anything was a better topic than the fucking quarter report due in the morning. Even wedding talk. “They’re good. We have a venue. We have catering. We’re just missing a minister. Or judge.” “That’s good. I’m glad for the two of you.” If anyone in the world was meant to be together, those two were The One. They had always fit. Even in happiness. More so in sorrow. Definitely in their brokenness. I remembered when weddings and forever-afters were futuristic fantasies. Not anymore. Now they’re unsent RSVPs stuck on my fridge. How times changed. How friends have changed. “How come you’re not dating anyone nowadays?” “I’m getting a little distance. Perspective.” “I see.” I looked into Lucifer’s face again. Trickster. “Trying to find yourself, huh?” “No. Just taking care of myself.” “Sounds fair. Looking for something else too, maybe?” I knew the subtext. The thoughts racing through his head like pumping blood. I remembered when my friends and peers were just that. Not anymore. Now they were worse. Past tourists of my bedsheets. Eager suitors-to-be. Scorned girlfriends. Jealous wives. How times have changed. How my life has changed. “I’ll tell you what: let’s get out of here.” “What?” I knew that meant I would end up finishing the report myself. And worse. “Let’s leave. We’ve work hard. It’s late and we deserve a break.” “It’s still due in the morning.” “C’mon, a ‘date’ is due. The two of us. No harm. Just fun.” I couldn’t believe he was the wunderkind inventor and investor seducer everyone praised. “And that’s not even counting the dinner I’ll buy you.” Teller would have a blast with that. “Go home to Gloria, Matt.” How times have not changed. 10: Play It As You May Val, it’s your 25th birthday and there’s so much to say I may be writing these words but I wanna sing them away My song’s for you full of love and praise and all of it is true so play it as you may The masterpieces of the world fade in your presence No painting as colorful No sculpture as sublime No poem as beautiful No goddess as divine My song’s for you full of love and praise and all of it is true so play it as you may The geniuses of the past would envy your thinking From the soul of your wit to the pits of your mind You’re an endless sea rich of ideas to find My song’s for you full of love and praise and all of it is true so play it as you may The heights of heavens feel like your home Your spirit soars the sky while mere mortal remain below You can’t stay aground for your spirit belongs above My song’s for you full of love and praise and all of it is true so play it as you may All the freedom in the world would not be enough Reality can’t contain you Imagination can’t invent you You’re the mystery of life Free from all the universe My song’s for you full of love and praise and all of it is true all I meant to say so play it as you may 11: Parental Advisory “Val, meet Scott. He just had to see you.” Teller. Of course he did. Bringing Scott to dinner. With my parents in tow. “I feel like I know you already.” “Likewise.” With all the creepy gifts and letters. I had to get back at Teller. Somehow. “And nice to meet you as well, Mr. and Mrs. Cole.” Scott. Shaking hands with my parents. What in the world. I had stopped Teller from meeting my parents for years. Barely. Now Scott knew them, too. Dinner would have to be over soon. Then never again. Knowing my dad, there was no other way. Except that Teller brought up sports. He knew. Scott joined, eager and knowledgeable. My dad was hooked. My mom and I talked too, but it wasn’t a real conversation. Conversations had always belonged to my dad. That was a birthright. My birthright. “So, Teller, how did you and Scott become friends?” I wasn’t giving in without a fight. “Mutual interests, you could say. The usual tropes.” Teller had the audacity to wink. “I have to say, sir, that I know nothing but good things about your daughter Valerie.” Understatement of the year, Scott. My dad, my secret admirer, and Teller, all partaking in their favorite--me. For 44 minutes. I swear this things happen only to me. Someone had to bring the dessert already. My worlds colliding. And all I could do was watch. I had to act. Talk to dad. “OK. Mom, Dad, I think it’s time for us to call it a night. I bet Teller and Scott probably want to grab a drink on their own.” “Oh, so you won’t be joining us for that?” My smirk cursed Teller to hell and back. He knew. There was no dessert. Driving back home, mom feigned sleeping. My dad did what I feared most. He talked first. “Those fellas. Teller and Scott. I didn’t hate them one bit, you know.” Those words may never be uttered again by my dad. “Why do you say that, dad?” “Because Teller puts up with you. He cares.” Understatement of the decade, Dad. “I know. But Scott?” Dad grinned, all-knowing. That grin. “Just keep in mind I didn’t hate either of them. That’s all.” Of course you didn’t, Dad. Of course. 12: Bonds & Options Ugh. I hate dealing with bonds and options. Least favorite part. Who even understands these things? Ugh. Finance. Back to the problem, so that I can go to sleep. What’s the model for these assets? What’s the risk? I hate forgetting what model to follow. And I hate Matt more for being an ass. I could be taking care of this task at the office. With all the proper documents to do it fast. But Matt had to be himself. Ugh. At least the coffee’s good here. My little café doesn’t disappoint. What’s the risk again? “Working late again, I see.” How did Scott find me? Here, in my sanctuary of Java. Not even Teller knows. Ugh. “The life of a financial analyst, I suppose.” “If you want to call it life.” I can tell he’s been around Teller. For too long. “It’s my life. All me. And numbers.” Scott, my admirer, looking me straight in the eye. Weird. “What’s your life about tonight then? Stocks? Gold? Coffee?” “Bonds and options.” If he dares to ask what that means… Ugh. “Those sound more like life than finance.” I wish he were wrong. I hate when others are right. “As I said, my life.” “And you do risk analysis, right?” “Among other things. Yes.” The things Matt never wants to do. Whatever. “So your job is to answer the question ‘what’s the risk’? That’s it?” I can’t tell if he means the question. His eyes just gleam at me. “My job, in a nutshell. More less.” But with equations to solve. “That sounds more like everybody’s life than finance. I like it.” Scott doesn’t know how right he is. But I won’t tell him. “And I love the equations. Math always makes sense.” Is he reading my mind now? Ugh. “Well, that’s totally my life. Tonight.” “I can see how that goes.” Lies. He observes. He knows. Me. Ugh. “That being said, I better go, for the darkness of night is no friend of mine.” Interesting. I didn’t expect that from my song-writing worshipper. “Good luck figuring out the risk of your bonds and options.” “I’ll let you know.” “Please do. Good night. And sweet risk-less dreams.” Scott, talking to me about math, bonds, and options. Teller will love this. Too much. Dammit. Scott, my secret worshipper. Teller’s new pal. My dad’s approved acquaintance. And now also my fellow math lover. Ugh. Perhaps Teller is right. The odds of that are pretty high. Considering past chances. I’m sure the math is there. Perhaps I should give Scott a democratic chance, oddly enough. At the end of the day, what’s the risk? 13: Breaking Taunted by the blank page and the silent strangeness of my home, the siren call echoing in my idle mind led me to knock on Mallory’s door that night. Find what you love and let it kill you… She opened the door and a legion of vices, bad decisions, and ghosts of bygone times rushed behind me to crowd the apartment. I kissed her, tasting the ashes of fossilized love, embers of regret, and some cheap cabernet. I pinned Mallory against a wall while I tasted her—the place I knew she would feel most at home. She undressed me in a frenzy, ripping off shirt, shame, pants, pretense, dread, decency, and socks—she knew how I hated socks ruining the natural sight of instinct and emotion. Everything in the world is about sex except sex… I rushed for her nakedness too, fervently looking to touch again the crevices of her soul and the landscapes of her body that I had hardly forgotten. I craved for that nude familiarity in the wild strangeness of my so-called life. Moans made promises never to be fulfilled, friction felt close enough to caring, and agitated silence marked the war we were waging with ourselves. Sex is the consolation you have when you can’t have love… It was ironic how there could be so much heat between us, same as always, yet such awful absence of flaming passion to justify it. Mallory and I always consumed in a frozen fire that burnt with coldness and frost—a blaze of oblivion for her and a rush of release for me. Nothing more. We always scratched the vault of heaven together, just to drag each other through hell a moment after—and that night, my writing brought fire and brimstone upon us. “You’re leaving me again?” “I have to go write.” “But we’re not done.” “We were done ages ago, Mallory.” What’s a fuck when what I want is love..? Then came the fucking brimstone. “You’re a writer who no one reads.” “All great writers are like that before they’re great.” “But no one reads you because you don’t even write.” I felt the heat rising through my body, much different from the hot blood of minutes before. I felt the urge to escape, just as I had escaped from myself between the sheets and on the rug of the living room, twice. “You’re still the same fucking Teller: all story, no hero, no substance.” Mallory’s nakedness now seemed raw and rude. Everyone behaves badly, given the chance… I got dressed in haste and rushed to exit for good. “Because you inspire me nothing.” And I shut it behind me. 14: In ReverseOf course, Conroe would bump into Teller at my door. On his walk of shame. Of course. Dammit. Why do these things happen to me? Teller better not try to defend my honor. Or point at my lack of it. He knows better. I’ll be ready for Teller and I to go to Shakespeare at the Park in a blink. He has no reason to be bitter about Conroe. Or time to act on it. Conroe was more fun than I expected. And better in the bedroom than the boardroom, oddly enough. His marble-worthy physique was well worth the wait. Three years of waiting made that marshmallow all the better. So many late nights with Conroe. At the office. With Matt gone. Imagining what ladies don’t. I had to eat the marshmallow eventually. Why do these things occur to me? Conroe and me, going from Excel spreadsheets to spreading in my sheets. Excellent. Not even Teller could come up with that one. I could even give that marshmallow another bite. Or ten. Too bad there’s a Shakespeare play at noon. Conroe’s loss. The night, though. Last night. I doubt Conroe will be able to keep his mind chaste when looking at me in the office. Or at any company lanyard after what we did. He was so hesitant to give in. To let go. But my hex appeal won. Poor Conroe. I wonder if he liked it as much as I did. Maybe he would like to make a habit of it. It would be good, I think. At least convenient. He won’t resist. I always win. “You’re an idiot if you think this means something.” Dammit, Teller. Don’t say those things. Not to strangers. “I’m not an idiot. That’s why I took my shot. Val is a legend.” Dammit, Conroe. I feel naked with clothes on. “I guess that makes your shot a mere scratch in her legend.” Teller, stabbing scoundrels with his rapier wit. For me. Dammit. I was not alone waiting for marshmallows. Why do these things occur to me? So Conroe can exit. Stage left. Back to the boardroom where he belongs. Poor Conroe. “Ready for The Bard?” I didn’t need to thank Teller for our shared solitude. “You know. Always.” “Scott will not be joining us.” “I didn’t know that was a thing.” “Good. Because I didn’t know this was a thing either.” Dammit, Teller. Sheath your sarcasm. For once. “So, Taming of the Shrew, huh?” And we exited. Stage right, of course. 15: In the Mix You’re among the crowd as if nobody was there I see you looking around and you don’t see me there We’re worlds apart Is there even a fix? I wish that we could share a world if we were in the mix People talk but no one listens Music plays but no one dances You could cry but not one cares I care for you but you don’t see me there We’re worlds apart Is there even a fix? I wish that we could share a world if we were in the mix You’re surrounded by faces yet feel alone We’re standing together yet remain distant I speak to you honestly yet you don’t believe We could be good for each other yet you don’t see me there We’re worlds apart Is there even a fix? I wish that we could share a world if we were in the mix Others have touched you though never your heart Others have grasped you though never your mind Others have come to you though never your soul I understand you whole though you don’t see me there We’re worlds apart but there is a fix We will share a world when we’re in the mix 16: Mixed Up I had to break it. Again. Why can’t I make them last? Stupid phone. Smashed and cracked. Ugh. I hate these work mixers. They’re worse than online hook-ups. At least there’s an open bar. I better find Teller. He needs to know I broke my phone. Otherwise he might get hurt when I don’t reply to his text quips. Stupid phone. Why do I keep breaking them? I hate everyone in this crowd. All colleagues. Few friends. Too many past flames. Too much smoke. Good thing I brought Teller. And Scott. Did I just say that? Seriously? Dammit. Where’s Teller? “If you’re looking for Teller, he was heading to the bar for a refill.” “Of course. The writers’ watering hole.” Thanks Scott for reading my mind. Ugh. “You’re not enjoying yourself, are you?” His innocent grin. Not as annoying in this crowd. “It’s part of the job. Mostly.” “I guess this is part of the risk?” So punny… “Risk? Clear and present danger.” Scott better not make a big deal of sharing a laugh with me. I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t noticed his eyes are hazel. Who knew… “So why are you not mingling?” “I have mingled with this crowd way too much already.” Mingled and then some. Teller would crack up at the understatement. “Why aren’t you, Scott?” “I don’t care about the crowd. I care about you.” Dammit. Sweet and flirty. Why now? Why here? “What happened to your phone?” “I dropped it and it cracked.” “That’s unfortunate.” “I’m used to it. It happens a lot.” “Notorious phone-breaker, huh?” “Yes. But only my own.” How do Scott and I end up talking like this? “Sounds like you need to pick your phone better.” No shit, Sherlock. “Well, at least when I break it I get a new one with better features to play with.” That’s so me. Preferring the new. Teller would call me out on it. “But getting a new one every time means you don’t learn how to use it.” “I’m good learning the features fast.” Don’t you dare condescend me. “You don’t get used to it. Then you break it again.” That’s not a truth I wanted to hear. Not even from Teller. “All I’m saying, I would pick the one that lasts next time. That keeps you connected.” His grin again. The true face of my worshipper. “Scott, did you really mean all those things you wrote me?” He doesn’t seem to be caught off-guard. Weird. “Of course I did. I could only have meant them more in a song, musical style.” His grin. My smirk. Ugh. Where’s Teller when I need him? Stupid phone. 17: Mirage Out of the crowd of unknown names and forgotten faces, she was someone I needed to know. The blue tips of her fiery hair and the flowery sundress in an October evening amidst the business casual décor framed her so out of place that I had to approach her. I could almost swear I knew her already pages ago. Zooey, in her twenties, fascinated by the world, yet too innocent to explore it… She scurried away from two finance guys that had accosted her as if in a strip club—giving me the setting for the meet-cute by the civilized watering hole of the open bar. “Are you new here?” “First time. How did you know?” She giggled and fidgeted with a strand of her hair. “Because otherwise I would have noticed you before.” She smiled. This was a meet-cute worthy of offbeat rom-coms, and I was OK with that as long as Val weren’t looking. New drinks in hand, we moved away from the bar, taking a stand by a nook that would allow for conversation and perhaps intimacy. Up close, the ruby of her lips and the sapphire of her eyes inspired awe and temptation in maddening and equal amounts. Marilyn, old enough to sin, but too young to repent… “I work for a nonprofit. What do you do?” It was inevitable to trigger that question at any mixer that involved Val and her colleagues. “I’m a writer.” “Cool.” No eyes wide open. No jaw dropped. No favorites follow-up. She was something. We talked about the terrible elevator music hissing in the background of the mixer, all the drunk ramblers already stumbling around, and other topics that may offend the intellect but not etiquette. She held her glass with private school poise, one that I had only seen in glorious Technicolor. Audrey, the wild dreamer doomed to a private purgatory of socialite life… Was she real? She must, for she was so close I could graze her arm with mine, while her scent of faint cigarettes and fancy Chanel made me forget all my other senses. I could already imagine caresses, kisses, and bedsheets to be shared. I didn’t even care if I left Val fending for herself in the mix. I had found what I was looking for—so I had to ask. “What’s your passion in life?” “I don’t believe in ‘passions.’ That’s so pretentious.” Suddenly the noise of the crowd and Kenny G existed in my world again, riddling and burdening me. She was something. “What’s your favorite book then?” “I hate reading. It’s the worst… Wanna get out of here?” There are riddles, and there are Gordian Knots. What would Alexander the Great do? “Yeah… I have to go back to the bar…” I disappeared into the crowd of aimless networkers and lonely social climbers, leaving her behind without any more words. How could I have believed the mirage? Of course I wouldn’t find what I was looking for in that scene. I did, however, find a couple in the coat-check booth in more need of my pocket condom, so I tossed it their way, certain that such kind gift would count as my good deed of the day and my contribution against the breeding of stupidity. I also finally found Val, donning her usual drink in hand and an unusual smile that expressed a level of joy we usually repress or sabotage. “That must be one hell of a drink.” “It’s been one hell of a night.” She smiled wider. Weird. “Tell me about it…” “Found another one of your mediocre muses, I take it.” “She was something.” Fucking redheads. “But at least you get to write about it, right?” Times like that made me wish there were boundaries between us. Some mystery at least. Katherine, lighting a match in the shadows as she whistles in the face of dread… Val knew I had found what I was truly looking for. Yet I wondered if she had done the same or even knew it herself. 18: Story-Teller He dribbles. He shoots. He misses. Teller, once again having an all-star disaster with his midnight muse. The story of Teller, always and wherever. A tragic, frustrating non-romance for the ages, written over and over again. A foul play in constant replay. I know one and I’ve seen them all. Teller will see a girl hurling his way and he will swing hard for the home run. Never hits the fences. All strikes and outs. No safety. No runs. No wins. He knows that. Yet he continues swinging, hoping for his historic grand-slam. The One to earn him the World. Teller won’t admit it, but we both know. He’ll bend and stretch and spin and throttle and flip and tiptoe and jump and flop and twirl if he thinks that might earn him a perfect ten with his golden girl at hand. Of course he always stumbles and face-plants when he realizes the girl is only ash and smoke. So he never sticks his romantic landing. Tonight, another loss for his record books. He definitely belongs to Guinness at this point. Of course, we’ll talk about it. Sports are only as entertaining as the commentary. His emotional boxing match certainly qualifies, bitten ear and all. “Another mystifying muse turned into a mirage?” I love twisting Teller’s words against him. “Shouldn’t you be biting Conroe’s head off somewhere?” “And miss your spectacular Waterloo?” We both would destroy anyone talking like this. Not us. Never us. We shoot looks, not venom. Not at each other, at least. “What was wrong with that one? I liked her Smurf hair. She wasn’t everything you imagined?” “What about Scott? Do you hate him yet for being everything you need?” “I don’t need anyone.” “If you want to stick to that story. Sure.” “How about another drink.” “Always.” I guess there are not solo sports. Not love, at least. And certainly not life. We dribble. We shoot. Perhaps next time we don’t miss. Ugh. I hate company mixers. TO BE CONTINUED
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