The suspended light bulbs
shine their yellow light on the oak leaves above. Underneath, a bar's
patio sits mostly empty from the Monday night crawl. A large patio
umbrella stands underneath the tree, barely brushing the thick trunk.
Below it, two groups of young adults enjoy the craft beer. The barmaid
makes conversation with some of the more regular of the customers, full
of excitement for things to come but lacking in sleep. The church across
the street stretches high into the sky, overlooking the town's two
bars.
The quiet chatter of this cool summer night fills me with a romantic
feeling, as if this was the place to meet a girl and start a new story. I
recognize the occasional face from school. Despite what societal
standards might say, attractive women are not in short supply,
especially not at a university.
It's an old habit of mine, to fall into romantic contemplations about
passing strangers. It's a broken sort of romance I imagine, though. I
know that now. It's always based in impossibilities, in my many
fictions. Maybe it's best if that part of me remains tied to fictional
stories, but they can't be shared. I also know that beauty, in all its
wonder, means next to nothing in a relationship. Love, in its full form,
is far more than simply physical attraction. Sometimes what makes the
physical form attractive is the mind within.
But it's a beautiful illusion of mine, these romantic thoughts of mine.
That blonde there, sitting underneath the patio umbrella with her
friends, could be my next love. I could run my fingers through her
golden hair when we're alone, and I could enjoy a nice blond beer with
her friends. Then there's that musician girl sitting at the bar. I've
met her before and she's quite a character. Our eyes met on my way back
from the bathroom. I could approach her, yeah, and start up a nice
conversation, keep her company. I could offer to walk her home (I'm wary
of other men), and when she would refuse me, I would ask her if she
would like to exchange numbers to talk again.
But I know one thing for sure. These are illusions I place upon them.
I'm sure they have their own illusions about things, maybe even about
love, but these illusions of mine are fundamentally lonely. I won't go
up to her. I won't start a new story with the blonde. I'll just sip my
beer and try to fight this old habit of mine. Somehow I'm dissatisfied
with what I have. I imagine some romantic perfect future with every
mildly interesting young woman who catches my eye and forsake all that I
have chasing after a dream. I can't do it anymore. I need to be better.
Otherwise I won't be able to help others be better...
-Zero
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