Gatsby's Dilemma
by Carly Auchey
I didn’t mean for this to happen, falling in love with you that is. I knew our time would be limited. But here I am begging you not to turn the page.
It started three weeks ago. I remember it was raining softly. I was in the book store. You remember the one, don’t you? West Egg Books. The hole-in-the-wall shop in the basement below the high end stores. You’d been in plenty of times, but you never noticed me before this visit.
You walked down the steps in your white converse, shook off your polka dot umbrella, and stepped in. You greeted the cashier with that head turning smile of yours. You wandered the aisles browsing through the classics, like A Farewell to Arms and Catcher in the Rye, but you weren’t interested in them. You were fanning through the fiction when you saw me, on display near the “Classic American Literature”. I’ll never forget the way your very touch sent shivers down my spine. I spent my life surrounded by books, but I couldn’t find words when we met. You smiled, payed for your purchase (three in all), opened your umbrella, and went back outside- taking me with you of course.
We walked a few more blocks through the still steady rain. We went to market. You wanted some cookies from Jordan’s Bake Stand, and some fresh flowers for your kitchen. You got sunflowers, or maybe daisies, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you long enough to notice. With flowers, snacks, and reading material, we started the walk back to your house.
The rain picked up- another reason we stayed inside the rest of the evening. Your converse squeaked as you took them off by the door. You put your flowers in a vase, and sat them on the counter. A quiet “much better” slipped from your lips. I leaned on the counter, and watched you fill a kettle with water.
With green tea in one hand and cookie in the other, you went to the window seat. I’m not sure about you, but that was my favorite spot in the house. Maybe it was the way we fit together on that seat, like puzzle pieces finally matched. Or maybe it was the piano music you liked to listen to. Or maybe the way your bright blue eyes scanned over every inch of me silently, while I imbibed the slightest shifts in your expressions. Whatever it was, I think I’ll miss our hours spent on that seat together more than anything else.
The night I finally went home with you though, was the most memorable. You switched from your “Peaceful Piano” music to the one with the movie soundtracks. “Young and Beautiful” played. The smell of green tea pervaded the room, you quietly ate your cookie, and finally, we talked. I started at the beginning, and you soaked it in. Enraptured by every word. My words formed sentences, and paragraphs, and chapters, and you listened. You listened to every single word. You listened. You accepted. And maybe it was my crazy imagination, but part of me hoped a part of you fell in love too.
The door opened and reality walked in. His name was Tom, and he kissed your head before he walked to the kitchen. We listened as he clicked open a cold one before retreating to his office. No words, just work. You sighed at his actions, and smiled. The kind of smile that held you together. The kind that meant you knew this wasn't good, but you knew you couldn’t change.
We stayed by the window all night. Was it two, three, four when we went to bed? I didn't think I was very interesting, but that night proved me wrong. I learned a lot of things because of you. Like the fact that I could fall in love at all, and in such a short amount of time. I learned that the times we were apart, we're the longest moments of my life. I learned what pure happiness was when were together. It's one thing to read about it, but no alliteration, allusion, simile, or metaphor could ever fully describe the way it feels to be happy with someone.
Here we are three weeks later. I can feel our chapter coming to an end. I know it will always be my favorite. Like the song you keep replaying over and over. I’ll replay our time together, remembering every cookie crumb, mug of tea, rainy night, and every inch of you as if my very life depended on it.
Without you, I feel like I’ll fall apart at the seams. I fear I’ll be cast aside, like the toy buried in the sandbox, abandoned by its beloved young owner. I’m scared you’ll forget about me, and move on, as if our time together meant nothing. I don’t think I could forget about you if I tried, even if I wanted to. I don’t, just to be clear, want to forget. I want someone to pen our story, so even when our time together ends, our story never will.
One week later, and our chapter is complete. My father, you know him, right? Fitzgerald. F. Scott, to be specific. He told me something about situations like this once, it went something like “the loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” I suppose that’s how I feel now. Watching you from the shelf. Your room illuminated only by the pale green glow from the traffic light outside. As you go on with your life, drinking your tea, eating those cookies you can’t get enough of, listening to Debussy, while I’m stuck here between Hemingway and Hawthorne.
I just hope that you’re happy. If you are, then maybe I’ll be too.
It started three weeks ago. I remember it was raining softly. I was in the book store. You remember the one, don’t you? West Egg Books. The hole-in-the-wall shop in the basement below the high end stores. You’d been in plenty of times, but you never noticed me before this visit.
You walked down the steps in your white converse, shook off your polka dot umbrella, and stepped in. You greeted the cashier with that head turning smile of yours. You wandered the aisles browsing through the classics, like A Farewell to Arms and Catcher in the Rye, but you weren’t interested in them. You were fanning through the fiction when you saw me, on display near the “Classic American Literature”. I’ll never forget the way your very touch sent shivers down my spine. I spent my life surrounded by books, but I couldn’t find words when we met. You smiled, payed for your purchase (three in all), opened your umbrella, and went back outside- taking me with you of course.
We walked a few more blocks through the still steady rain. We went to market. You wanted some cookies from Jordan’s Bake Stand, and some fresh flowers for your kitchen. You got sunflowers, or maybe daisies, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you long enough to notice. With flowers, snacks, and reading material, we started the walk back to your house.
The rain picked up- another reason we stayed inside the rest of the evening. Your converse squeaked as you took them off by the door. You put your flowers in a vase, and sat them on the counter. A quiet “much better” slipped from your lips. I leaned on the counter, and watched you fill a kettle with water.
With green tea in one hand and cookie in the other, you went to the window seat. I’m not sure about you, but that was my favorite spot in the house. Maybe it was the way we fit together on that seat, like puzzle pieces finally matched. Or maybe it was the piano music you liked to listen to. Or maybe the way your bright blue eyes scanned over every inch of me silently, while I imbibed the slightest shifts in your expressions. Whatever it was, I think I’ll miss our hours spent on that seat together more than anything else.
The night I finally went home with you though, was the most memorable. You switched from your “Peaceful Piano” music to the one with the movie soundtracks. “Young and Beautiful” played. The smell of green tea pervaded the room, you quietly ate your cookie, and finally, we talked. I started at the beginning, and you soaked it in. Enraptured by every word. My words formed sentences, and paragraphs, and chapters, and you listened. You listened to every single word. You listened. You accepted. And maybe it was my crazy imagination, but part of me hoped a part of you fell in love too.
The door opened and reality walked in. His name was Tom, and he kissed your head before he walked to the kitchen. We listened as he clicked open a cold one before retreating to his office. No words, just work. You sighed at his actions, and smiled. The kind of smile that held you together. The kind that meant you knew this wasn't good, but you knew you couldn’t change.
We stayed by the window all night. Was it two, three, four when we went to bed? I didn't think I was very interesting, but that night proved me wrong. I learned a lot of things because of you. Like the fact that I could fall in love at all, and in such a short amount of time. I learned that the times we were apart, we're the longest moments of my life. I learned what pure happiness was when were together. It's one thing to read about it, but no alliteration, allusion, simile, or metaphor could ever fully describe the way it feels to be happy with someone.
Here we are three weeks later. I can feel our chapter coming to an end. I know it will always be my favorite. Like the song you keep replaying over and over. I’ll replay our time together, remembering every cookie crumb, mug of tea, rainy night, and every inch of you as if my very life depended on it.
Without you, I feel like I’ll fall apart at the seams. I fear I’ll be cast aside, like the toy buried in the sandbox, abandoned by its beloved young owner. I’m scared you’ll forget about me, and move on, as if our time together meant nothing. I don’t think I could forget about you if I tried, even if I wanted to. I don’t, just to be clear, want to forget. I want someone to pen our story, so even when our time together ends, our story never will.
One week later, and our chapter is complete. My father, you know him, right? Fitzgerald. F. Scott, to be specific. He told me something about situations like this once, it went something like “the loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” I suppose that’s how I feel now. Watching you from the shelf. Your room illuminated only by the pale green glow from the traffic light outside. As you go on with your life, drinking your tea, eating those cookies you can’t get enough of, listening to Debussy, while I’m stuck here between Hemingway and Hawthorne.
I just hope that you’re happy. If you are, then maybe I’ll be too.