Beginning of a short story

By john_pearson

She is as quiet as I, our conversations are borderline awkward but there is a certain beautiful tenderness to them which cannot quite be put into words. Our relationship is such that words are becoming less and less expressive and give way to love of dancing, of wine, of love itself.
Before her, my relationships with women were somewhat lyrical – I would search desperately for my own subjective view of perfection in all women and as such I was constantly disappointed. This disappointment would give way to depression, which in turn would lead to losing myself in dancing, in drugs and in bottomless pint glasses. For a while as well I would attempt to get lost in more creative and productive pursuits – music, art, writing – all acceptable outlets for what was rapidly becoming more than just teen angst, but blind, sheer rage, beyond cynicism or frustration, a feeling that everything living should be dead and nothing was worth doing. Apathy punctuated by brief, blissful moments of sheer inebriated euphoria, hatred for everything besides red wine and cigarettes and the promise of sex, or the promise that one day things might improve.

This was something I could not convey to anyone – from an outside perspective I was simply a moody teenager, but inwardly my solipsistic and lonely existence was becoming the existence I wanted – growing to be a miserable, penniless old poet, swearing off women and swearing by the bottle. Solitude was rapidly becoming my only companion, a warm, comforting arm on mine through the harsh London winters.

Let alone the fact that I would not communicate with anyone about my feelings, I was becoming a monosyllabic drunk, avoiding human contact in favour of the works of Goethe and Solzhenitsyn and a bottle of red.
As it goes, I met a girl - by the time I had met her, my emotions were dulled, my inhibitions non-existent, my ability to empathise with others all but gone. But, I found her to be fascinating – beautiful, intelligent, dark eyes and pale skin. We chatted lightly about ourselves, and for the first time in months I found myself opening up. Doing so was an almost unbearable relief. It was as if I had been locked in a small, dark, cold space for a year and that I had suddenly, unexpectedly been let out, and I was feeling the sun on my face for the first time again and relishing the feeling.
I arranged to meet her again, in Soho. We drank oh-so-sweet pints of bitter, discussed life and held hands. The happiness I felt was somewhat incomprehensible, we visited bars and I danced like a twat. She looked beautiful, and I told her this. She kissed me under the stare of God, I held her small frame in my arms and stroked her hair.

Beginning of a short story

Created: Jan 22, 2010

Tags: short story, romance

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