One Page Love Story- Share the Love

by Rich Walls et al.

  Does she have a great smile?

  Can you tell

  Just

  Looking in her eyes,

  That she’s strong, sweet—

  Then it should be no surprise

  That you fall,

  Hard.

  Who care what others say?

  This is deep

  Real

  This is here to stay.

  Take a step—

  Slow—

  Don’t frighten her away.

  Don’t talk trash to her friends.

  Don’t think that you can stray.

  Remember all those other women you had in your life?

  Did you think of them as lover?

  Did you think of them as wife?

  Did you want them to grow old with you? To bear your only son?

  Do you think that she is different?

  Do you think that she’s the one?

  When you touch her is it more than just a meeting skin to skin?

  Do you want to know her secrets?

  Do you want to let her in?

  Be a man. Sure, it’s hard. Such is life. Make the call.

  This is love. Grab it hard. Hold it dear.

  Love is all.

  MORNING

  She waits.

  Watching the sugar spooned slowly, followed by milk.

  Hearing the spoon hit the side of the mug, stirring. Then, still.

  She offers toast.

  He glances up.

  No, thanks.

  She waits.

  The silence is finally broken by the purring of the cat.

  She jumps up gratefully, filling the bowl, stroking the calico back.

  Do you like cats?

  He shrugs.

  I’m a dog person.

  She sees what the darkness hid, a long thin scar down his back.

  She touches it gently, his skin cool now beneath her fingertips.

  What happened?

  I’ll tell you someday.

  They had lain all night together, skin against skin—finally.

  And she had let him in to all the deepest and treasured places of her body and soul.

  And she felt her heart open.

  And she felt herself falling.

  And she listened, hoping to hear that he was falling too.

  In her tiny kitchen, she sees that she is not important enough to warrant an answer to such a simple question.

  But he does not leave. She pours more coffee.

  She waits.

  SHOPPING

  The shopping cart had a creaking wheel. Larry hated creaking wheels. He glanced ahead at Blanche.

  “Hear that? I hate this cart. We need another cart, Blanche.”

  Blanche took a box of crackers off the shelf and began to read. She was reading the ingredients, he knew. She always read the ingredients. Even though they always bought the same brand.

  “Blanche, those crackers are just like the ones at home. Nothing new on the box.”

  She continued to read, the fluorescent lights turning her white hair to gold.

  “I’m gonna get another cart, this one squeaks,” Larry said loudly. She still didn’t turn around.

  “I’m tired of those crackers. Get the other box, the yellow box. Blanche, get the other kind.”

  Blanche calmly put the box back on the shelf.

  “You’re not hearing me, Blanche. Do you have your hearing aid turned on? You know I hate it when you don’t hear me.”

  Blanche lifted her eyes up to the shelf, looking at the other boxes.

  “The yellow box, Blanche. Get the yellow box.” He raised his voice. “Do I have to get it myself?”

  She reached for the yellow box of crackers, looking carefully at the back label, reading.

  “I’m going to get another cart. Stay right here, okay? I hate a squeaky cart. Are you hearing me, Blanche?”

  Blanche raised her eyebrows and shuttered slightly, putting the box of crackers back on the shelf.

  “I know they’re salty, but I like those better. The other crackers taste like cardboard. Blanche, did you hear me? I want the salty crackers.”

  She took the first box of crackers off the shelf again.

  “Dammit, I want the salty crackers!” He moved forward a few feet, the cart moving unsteadily, the wheel creaking noisily.

  Blanche turned to him with a smile. “Larry, why don’t you get another cart? I know how you hate a noisy cart. And are these okay? I know you like the salty crackers, but these are much better for you.”

  Larry took a deep breath and smiled back. “Of course,” he said gently. “Those crackers are fine. And you’re right. I should get another cart.”

  Blanche nodded, her lovely eyes unfocused. She dropped the box in the cart, then moved down the aisle. Larry followed.

  “Slow down, Blanche,” he said loudly. “I have to get another cart.”

  SNOWBALL

  “Hurry.”

  Mark smiled and followed his son through the crowded hallway. Danny’s bright red hair bobbed in and out. Mark quickened his pace.

  The cafeteria doors loomed ahead, festooned with silver and white garland and twinkling lights.

  They paused in the doorway.

  “Who are we looking for?” Mark asked.

  “The most beautiful girl in school,” Danny said solemnly.

  Mark cast his eyes around the room. The moms were manning the refreshment table, lined with glasses of punch and homemade cookies. He recognized most of the faces from countless Back-to-School nights and Band concerts. When Danny had started kindergarten, he and Kate had always come together. And then Kate got sick. He’d been coming to these school functions alone for a long time. But this one was special. His son’s first school dance. The fifth grade SnowBall.

  “Do you know what she’s wearing?” Mark asked.

  Danny was on tip-toes, straining to see to the back of the room. “There she is!” He smoothed his hair with one hand, holding tight to the clear plastic box that held the corsage with the other. He walked quickly towards a vision in silver and pink.

  Mark followed. She certainly was the most beautiful girl in the school. Long blonde curls, wide blue eyes, and at least six inches taller than Danny. Mark held his breath, but when she caught sight of Danny, she beamed a perfectly glorious smile and clapped her hands together.

  Danny stopped in front of her. “You look beautiful, Caroline.”

  She rolled her eyes and blushed. “Thanks Danny. And you look very cool.”

  Danny turned, sounding very grown up. “Dad, this is Caroline Henry.”

  Mark shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Caroline. Danny tells me you’re new here in school.”

  She had dimples. “Yes. My mom and I just moved here. From Maryland.”

  Danny had been wrestling with the corsage box, and finally succeeded in pulling out the fragile orchid. “It goes on your wrist,” he explained.

  Caroline held out her arm and watched as Danny slid it around her slender hand.

  “It’s wonderful,” she breathed. “I’ve never gotten flowers before.” She leaned forward and gave Danny a quick kiss on the cheek.

  Mark kept a straight face. At least this little beauty won’t break his son’s heart anytime soon, he thought. She seemed as smitten as Danny. Ah, young love. They could not stop smiling at each other.

  “Caroline, are you going to introduce me?”

  Mark turned. She had to be Caroline’s mother. The blonde hair was darker, and the blue eyes were not as wide, but—what a beauty.

  “Mom, this is the boy I was telling you about. Danny, this is my mom.”

  Danny shook hands like an old pro. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Henry.”

  She made a face. “Thanks, Danny, but it’s Ms. Duffield.” I’m not married to Caroline’s dad anymore.”

  Mark smiled. “Welcome to Bloomfield Elementary, Ms. Duffield. I’m Mark.”

  She smiled back. “Thank you. And it’s Alison.”


  They shook hands. And could not stop smiling at each other.

  WANTED

  Roommate to share downtown loft. Must love Swedish House Mafia and Doctor Who. Need someone who can cook the perfect three-alarm chili and likes drinking red wine on the fire escape. Ample storage space because I finally got rid of my old paperback book collection. Dripping kitchen faucet fixed and new hot water heater guarantees hot showers every morning. Will park own car on street to free up designated underground space. No more all-night Grand Theft Auto with the guys. No more empty pizza boxes on the bed. Promise to do own laundry and vacuum once a week. Looking for the perfect combination of smart, funny and sexy. Rent waived if willing to put up with drooling bulldog and Sunday football.

  Amanda – I know you’re the only one in the world who reads these stupid ads. I love you. Please come back home.

  WINNIE

  Winnie was asleep when she got home. That happened more and more these days. Winnie spent less time gazing out the window and more time curled up on the couch, but she would wake at the sound of the lock in the key and scurry to the top of the stairs, sitting patiently, tail wagging.

  Winnie got her reward—a kiss on the nose, a scratch behind the ears. The back door opened, and Winnie ran out into the small, familiar yard. So many new scents since this morning, but she was calling, so Winnie went back into the house.

  She was talking about Jack. Winnie knew Jack—he spent time there. On the nights that Jack stayed over, Winnie slept outside the bedroom door instead of stretched across the foot of the bed, but Winnie didn’t mind. Jack threw sticks and rubbed her belly.

  She was talking excitedly. Winnie didn’t understand, of course, but the sound of happiness in her voice was enough. Winnie watched the familiar movements—changing clothes, lighting candles, opening wine. Winnie ate her dinner, listening for the door.

  When he came, Winnie raced to the top of the stairs and leaned against her knees. Jack did not come up the stairs. He stood in the open door, speaking. His voice was low and sad. Then he turned around and closed the door behind him.

  She sank onto the top step, her body shaking with sobs. Winnie whined softly, and felt her arms go around, tightly. Winnie pressed closer, waiting for the crying to stop.

  And when it didn’t, Winnie licked away the tears.

  E.H. SCHUTZ

  E. H. Schutz is the author of Luxuria and Invidia, parts one and two of the Elizabethan romance trilogy, Impurities. She lives in Austin with her wife and wildlife.

  NOT EVERYTHING ENDS. NOT LOVE. NOT ALWAYS.

  By then, I was not so thick as to be unable to tell when a woman liked me, but that did not mean that I had the fortitude to mention it outright to the woman in question. As a result, we spent weeks dancing figuratively around each other, staying up all night watching movies, or having drinks while staring meaningfully into each other’s eyes. Dear God, those eyes.

  I almost kissed her one evening. Almost. Experience had taught me that making the first move would be rewarded at the point of the break up with the declaration that I had pressured her into it and that the ensuing six months were therefore entirely my fault.

  So I did not kiss her that time.

  I made her dinner after she had had a long day at work and she hung onto my shoulders for ages while I inhaled the light rosemary and lavender scent of her hair, and she nuzzled my collarbone, and I did not kiss her that time, either.

  She flirted with me relentlessly. It was subtle enough that no one around us knew it was happening, but I occasionally had to excuse myself, go outside, and breathe deeply of the cold air so that I might comport myself with something resembling dignity.

  When I finally gathered some semblance of courage and went in for the kiss one evening, she turned her head to the side and I caught her just in front of her ear. She kissed my cheek and bade me good night. I almost gave up on the whole idea at that point, but there remained that look in her eyes and the smirk which still tugged at my heart. Instead, I gave it a bit. We had plenty of time, and I enjoyed her company so much that whether I kissed her at the end of it was irrelevant—until it was.

  Having failed at being sneaky, I finally determined to simply confront her with the obvious. She stared at me, and my heart sank into my feet because I had just ruined a perfectly lovely friendship. I may have stammered an apology before she launched herself at me and planted one of the most perfect kisses on my lips. It was not long before whether I kissed her when we parted company became extremely relevant.

  One expects an infatuation, once requited, to reach its inevitable conclusion and then abate, eventually reaching a denouement where at least one party determines that it was nice for a while, but things are getting far too serious, and I do not want a relationship right now, but it’s not you, it’s me, and you’re a really good person and I hope you find someone who is right for you. I had certainly experienced it enough that I saw it coming.

  A MIGHTY FORTRESS

  Frederick and Millie met at a church picnic, and according to legend, it did not take long before they were an item, nor did much time pass before they became engaged. More than fifty years later, and after ten years of widowhood, he still did not take kindly to anyone sitting at her place at the dining table.

  Millie had grown up in middle of the city, roller skating and pitching when she played sandlot baseball with all of the neighbourhood boys. Her father worked as a machinist for Central Power and Light, and rode his bicycle with its tyres patched so thoroughly that they were more of an ode to vulcanisation than truly tyres. In the evenings, they covered their windows with the blackout curtains and the neighbourhood kids played outside while the adults talked to each other. The nearby Naval Air Station ultimately never was a target.

  Frederick grew up the youngest of four on a farm outside of town. He and his three elder sisters worked as hard as their parents, encouraging the miracle of cotton out of the red dirt. He conspired with one of his sisters to get electricity at the farm and dragged his father into the twentieth century on the back of a Massey Ferguson tractor. Frederick was too young for the war, but he was a crack shot, and in later life, won several shooting awards from the county 4-H.

  They married, and Millie became a farmer’s wife. In the era of June Cleaver, she mended fences and livestock rather than vacuuming in heels and pearls, and, truth be told, preferred it that way. As their children grew, they communicated with each other in a pidgin German, his befouled by the idiosyncratic usage of his parents, and hers a time capsule of Weimar-era German courtesy of her immigrant father.

  When, in the fifties, it did not rain for years, and Frederick had to borrow cotton from a cousin in order to make a single bale one year, they held together. When they were tossed unceremoniously off of the family farm—the landlord decided to sell without offering them right of first refusal—they held together. They raised and educated five children together, and danced together at their weddings. Every adversity they faced with faith, a deep love and respect for each other, and the assumption that everything would turn out in the end.

  When Millie died of a cancer which had left her emaciated and drawn, and at her funeral Frederick gazed upon her for the last time, he, the man who remained relentlessly positive through any hardship, broke down and quietly lamented his loss. Those close by could hear him. “She’s so beautiful. She’s so beautiful.”

  IF I KNEW WHAT I WAS DOING, I’D BE DOING IT RIGHT NOW

  She caught me by surprise.

  Women do not throw themselves at me, literally or figuratively. Women do not randomly flirt with me. Well, that is a lie. Back in college, straight women threw themselves all over me. I have made out with enough straight women that if I actually got paid hourly for it, I would have been well able to support myself.

  This was different, though.

  I was interested in her as a person because we shared an academic interest which bored all of our friends to absolute tears, so when we began our friendship, it was over a
beer on a Friday night when neither of us had plans and everyone else did. She later referred to that evening as our first date. I had no objection.

  That escalated to us rather suddenly confessing our love for each other. I had only fallen in love so quickly once before, and even so, I had no idea what I was doing or thinking. There were so many reasons why we ought not be in love, and yet here we were.

  And I had no idea what to do with myself, or with her confession that she actually, miraculously, felt the same as I. Here she had gone from a mere acquaintance, to a friend whom I felt I would like to keep around for an indefinite period of time, to someone whom I—God help me—did not wish to live without, and it all felt completely ridiculous that she might feel the same way for me.

  Sometimes it still feels that way, and when I focus on that feeling, the feeling that she could not possibly love me the way I love her, that is when it feels like everything is going to crumble to pieces. Instead of thinking about how she proves every day that she loves me with her very being, I think of how difficult it must be for her to be with a woman, and how terrible it would be if the wrong people found out about us.

  Then I pull myself out of it and buy her a rose because it makes her smile, and accept her compliments, and listen—truly listen, which is the hardest thing to do—when she tells me that I am wonderful and that I am worth how difficult it is to be with me. And I thank whomever might be listening that she is so very patient because in an extraordinarily short amount of time, she has become one of the things which makes my life complete.

  I still have no idea what I am doing other than loving her, and that may have to be enough for now.

  FEELS LIKE HOME