He wasn’t ready for a commitment, so instead he compromised his beliefs, went out drinking with the boys, and made stories, it seemed, that everyone would want to repeat. Over and over again. Until she couldn’t take it anymore. Her mom thought he was an okay guy. Not much for talking, she said. But nice enough. And quite handsome, she added matter of factly. But she could tell her mom had less stringent qualifications for “handsome.” Those types of prerequisites change as one ages. He was a merit scholar. He was great at those analogies. Arduous is to demanding as robust is to vigorous. She was always a little jealous of his intellect. “She’s smart, too,” he would tell people. “But in a different way.” His friends said she changed him, made him sad, sucked his energy. He knew they had a point, but he needed her. He was a hopeless romantic. He would call her just to let her know he was thinking of her. It was usually true, too. He learned to separate her from his friends after the time she argued with one of them about the war. Things got ugly. Words were said that weren’t really meant. After that, she stuck to her world, he stuck to his. Their relationship was just a sliver in their barely overlapping spheres, drifting apart. Her job started taking its toll. So did school. Her dreams got in the way of their relationship. Their relationship was his dreams. “Are you going to eat that?” He asked on their first date. “I’m not sure,” she responded. It was the truth. She really wasn’t sure. But to him, her response sounded more like, “Amish earth.” He didn’t entirely know what to do with her. Looking at pictures, shortly after everything had died down, she would yell, "Eggs are to Easy as I am to you, asshole!" He just stood there in his contrived pose, saying nothing through his unflinching smile. They still see each other every now and then. They belong to the same gym. And she still avidly reads the column he writes for the local newspaper. But they don’t talk much. He was never really much for talking. |