Writing

What does it take to write about love? What makes some writing so poignant and moving? Why is one person's story so perfectly heartbreaking? It's all the same story really, isn't it? Love is all the same.

Apple Guy

I was just in for some produce on the way home from dinner. Whole Foods is kind of a magical place--lofty space, colors, happy people. I was picking out some apples and this staffer stacking the apples smiled so big at me. He was lean, hippy sensibility, fine blondish hair to his shoulders.

"How are you doin tonight?"


... "I. Am. Super!"


"Wow. Wow. Don't get that a lot!"


"How are you?"


"Super... Super awesome!"


"Did you just one up me?"


"No..."


We made a few more jokes, smiled more at each other and then I went on my merry way. The next time I cruised through, I caught eye contact with him unexpectedly passing an aisle. Then I took a trip in the evening again, to pick up some produce and flirt with Apple Guy. He was packing the mangoes right at the front door.

"Oh! Hi! How are you?"

"Great! How about you?"

"Can you do me a favor? Can you pick out a mango for me?"

"Absolutely! I need to ask some questions first. When will you be eating this mango?"

"Tomorrow? And the day after?"
 
"Wait... AND the day after?"

"Well, two mangoes"

"All right. That's more like it. Now let's see here... How about this one? This one would be perfect for tomorrow. Wait a minute." He takes a knife out of his shorts pocket. He picks a mango up, slices it open, crosshatches one side, hands it to me. "We have to make sure you like your mango like I like my mango. Is this too tart... or just perfect?"

"Perfect."

"Right on!" He handed me another perfectly picked mango. I thanked him and he wished me a beautiful evening.

I found a reason to stop by a few days later, in the afternoon. I had to circle the busy produce section four times before I caught sight of him by the flowers. We made smiling eye contact while he laughed with a halo of flowers over his head.

He's so joyful. He makes me happy, too.

Friends?

I don't smell him in the laundry detergent. I don't wish for him when I walk by the pizza place. My heart doesn't sink when I see his face in a picture. I have to really concentrate to remember how he felt or how he talked. The one day when I nearly ran into him--saw him yards ahead of me crossing the street--it felt like my insides exploded. What would happen now?

Can we be friends? And if we can, do I want to be friends? Do I blame him still?