Lunch Time Story

I stood there and listened to him telling the story, his story.

I wore dark purple turtle neck sweater, deep red low cut vase, dark grey dress pants, and black ankle-height boots. My hair bangs, thicker than I last saw it, covered part of my right eye. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I wondered if I looked attentive. I wonder if he poured his heart out to me because I “looked” attentive. I wondered if he needed advices from me when he was done with his story. I wondered if I had anything to say to him.

He met her in London. They spent a few hours everyday for a few weeks together. Then he left to France, to Italy, to Canada. She went back to America. That was where they spent another few weeks together. Then he went back home to Australia. She went to see him and stayed there for a month. Finally, it was time for her to leave.

They handled the long distance well at the beginning. They wrote constantly. They talked. They looked forward to and cherished each visit. They held on for years. They must loved (still do, I bet) each other deeply.

I wasn’t sure how the story ended, really, except that they ended it. My mind drifted in the middle of the story. I started to wonder if they would ever love again, if their new love would measure up to this one. This was possibly the first love for both of them. First love itself is hard enough to get over with without being amplified by the long distance.

"It was like saving a falling leaf." He concluded.

I blame the modern transportation. They allow us to fly thousands of miles before we are ready to plunk our roots and move across thousands of miles, for love.