Falling to Earth

There is very little that I know to be true. I'm told that the world is round, that the universe expands past the boundaries of the infinite, that the human body is populated by over five hundred different species of bacteria. I'm told that history started either 14 billion years ago or six thousand years ago, depending on which zealot you believe. But what do I know? I know that I hate traffic in the mornings, I know that my dog will always prefer to piss on carpet when given the choice, and I know that I love my girlfriend. She says she loves me back and I believe her.

"So," She said to me the other day, as we walked from the quad to the edge of campus and across the street into the public parking lot, "there's this song that reminds me of you."

We've been together for 6 years - through thick and thin, so to speak - and she knew that this particular silence was an invitation to continue.

"It's got a lot of space metaphors." Which is how everyone labels me these days. "And it's kind of... hands off... I guess... I'm not really sure, but you should listen to it."

"Send me a link and I'll grab it tonight." I said. And she was satisfied. I think both of us are rather too easily satisfied, to be honest, but it is what it is.

_________________________________________

We met in high school during a group project. I did all of it and she never returned my calls. It was a wonderful first impression. When we presented it in front of the class, things went rather smoothly, despite my yearnings to the contrary. She read the outline points at the back of the poster and I filled them in with the actual meat of the project and we got excellent marks. It was infuriating.

We worked so well together that word got around. When we both needed extra credit in English, Mr. Bowers offered a group project - a sort of combination story where each of us wrote a paragraph in turn. It would help us understand complex creative writing, he claimed.

I started the project in an email.

"Life is hard." I wrote, "Everyone thinks that everyone else is special, but that they're alone. Truth is, it's the other way around. Roger Cupland was going to learn that in his own way, and it would change his life forever."

It's best to start a collaborative story with a clear premise, I thought at the time, make it deep and mellow. High school girls can do that like no one else on the planet. I sent our first paragraph during lunch that day.

To be perfectly honest, I expected to receive no reply, so I had already prepared her portions of the story in an outline. Roger would meet a girl named Anny - because she would misspell the name on purpose - and they would become friends. It was going to be a few pages long and I'd write her parts with periods instead of commas. Just. You know. To differentiate the styles.

Then it came. In pink comic sans. "Marybell was popular, pretty, and intelligent, but she was never happy. Everyone saw her in the hall and smiled their fake smiles and waved their fake waves, but she recognized them all for what they were and she hated them. Roger Cupland was different. He was honest. She wished there was some way they could talk, but he would never give her the time of day."

It was a bit rambling, and the pink was jarring. The choice of font need not be commented upon in polite company. But there it was, and even along the lines that I'd outlined. I wrote back when I arrived home that night.

"One morning, Roger was watching the halls, feeling jealous of all of the happy people, when Marybell walked past and smiled as their eyes crossed. He felt his heart race and cursed her for giving him hope."

Telling you that I wrote this is embarrassing to the nth degree. Please do not judge me.

The next day was a blur - responding, waiting to feel the buzz of a message received, and repeating. Over the course of a day, I - as Roger - aired all of my grievances and Marybell listened and understood me. I knew in my head that she was a figment of a horrible girl's imagination, but this was my first opportunity to spill my soul without the possibility of derision or judgment. It was a marvelous high.