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But before I knew she was a lesbian, I did have a love that I’d been waiting to give her, and I saw the sadness in her eyes as my chance to show her—to tell her the “truth.” I wanted my Bacharach and my Happily-Ever-After sunset, but she had her own greater truth to tell: her own love she’d been waiting to show everyone. Our two truths, our two loves, floating there, awkward and expectant—hers made plain for me to see, and mine still hidden behind my back. Even though a part of me, that dick-ish part, wanted to kick and spit and tear at the grass in a childish tantrum after she told me she was a lesbian, there was still love there, and love doesn’t abide tantrums. So I smiled, because smiling is easy. We talked, and I promised. We hugged, and she drove away so that one day, she could give her love away. I held onto mine as a souvenir so that one day, I could put it away on a dusty shelf in a closet in my chest. And one day, I’d forget all about it as we usually do with such things, a new better kind of love taking its place. One day, we’d sit on our campus’ sad simulacrum of a quad with no secrets clogging the air between us, no deeper meanings, metaphors or things hidden. The shimmering rays of sun would be just light, and the grass just grass; and it would be a far better story, one of many to tell long after we’d left, graduated, moved on, drifted apart and come back. And in that way, I guess that’s why our quad worked, why every quad works. It is (or it can be) a place for our stories—a place where the best stories begin, and where they eventually (always, inevitably) end.

Blotterature 34

Blotterature Literary Magazine Volume 1, Issue 2  
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