Everything But Love

Chapter 1 - Phony

Chapter 1 - Phony

It all happened so innocently. I was a writer, you see? I spent my days as a miserable college student and my nights as an equally miserable novelist (have you ever heard of a writer who wasn't depressed? Neither have I). I was a nocturnal animal; I slept through the afternoons and powered through the night, typing viciously while chain smoking a pack of Red Camels. I wanted to be J.D. Salinger, knowing damned well I was no more than a Holden Caulfield. I'd write about murders, resurrections, dreamers, hopeless romantics, sex, and of course, women. I loved writing about women. Boy, was I a shitty writer.

It was approximately 2:34 AM sometime in the middle of December when it happened. For the first time in months, I had writer's block. I blinked twice, took one last puff of my cigarette, and extinguished it in a glass ashtray by my window. My neighbors would complain about the smoke traveling through the ventilation system, so I found a way to strategically blow it out into the night's air. I blinked again.

My fingers hovered over my keyboard without cause. I read my work over and over again. Something was missing. I tried to string together a sentence to no avail. It felt like my fingers were broken -- no, my brain was broken. I needed some sort of inspiration -- a muse. I tried to rack my brain for answers: the last girl I had been romantically involved with cut ties with me a year ago. She had used the excuse that our zodiacs weren't compatible, or some bullshit like that. Girls are crazy sometimes. I thought harder. There was an attractive girl in my Political Science class with long legs and red hair, but she had the most obnoxious laugh. There's nothing I despise more than an ugly laugh.

This is ridiculous. I threw my hands up into the air in defeat. I sighed and decided to face the ugly truth: I was stuck. But I wouldn't be stuck for long.

I decided to call it a night and retreated to my bed. The night air felt like the breath of a goddess on my hot flesh. I pulled my blanket up to my chin, but my feet began to poke out from the bottom so I compromised and pulled it just up to my neck. I'd grown a couple inches just last year so I was still adjusting to my new elevation. I let the sound of the wind rustling the trees lull me to sleep.

That night, I dreamt of nothing.

The following morning, I woke up to the feeling of water dripping onto my forehead. Shit. My ceiling had been leaking again; it had rained sometimes during the night. I made a mental note to fix it sometime during the week, knowing I probably wouldn't. I skipped breakfast, but made myself some black coffee. I had a habit of holding the hot mug directly, neglecting the handle. I like the feeling of burning urgency that comes with holding a mug that's too hot.

It was still around six in the morning, so I decided that I had enough time to squeeze in a quick shower. I liked the water not too hot and not too cold, and spent most of my time looking at my feet and quietly contemplating. I lived a dreary existence and I owned it, like any other twenty-one-year-old loner would.

I exited the shower carefully and began to dress up. My brother had sent me a package containing a single, tan scarf as an early Christmas gift. The note attached read: Merry Christmas, Prick. He was quite the charmer. I threw on the scarf with much hesitation, examining my lanky figure in the mirror. I ripped it off immediately, threw on my overcoat, and headed out of my apartment with my school bag in hand. Then in about ten seconds, I reentered my apartment, gruffly, and snatched my scarf back.

My college was walking distance, so I rarely used my old Camry. It was a typical December morning in California: a chilly breeze on a deceivingly sunny day. I warmed the tip of my nose with my hands as I crossed the final street onto campus.

"Dante, buddy! Turn around!" I heard a familiar voice call out. I turned around and saw my close friend, Emilio Guerra waving frantically. We'd met the year before in Sociology class; I was never too great at making friends, but he was persistent. His chiseled physique was intimidating at first, but his childlike playfulness melted away my anxiety. I waved back and grinned.

But he wasn't alone. He was holding the hand of an angel.

She was relatively short in stature with round hips and a full chest. Her hair was a forest of glossy, brunette curls. As I drew nearer, I noticed her hazel eyes under an umbrella of daring, thick eyebrows. Her olive skin and sharp jaw gave the impression of an Egyptian mistress.

Naturally, I was at a loss for words.

Emilio's mouth was moving but it was like time had slowed to a halt and become a convoluted blur. For a split second, it was just me and her; I was captivated by this nameless creature I hadn't even met. It was like my lungs had collapsed and my heart was going to burst out of my chest and fall to her feet.

"Dante?" Emilio had a look of concern plastered on his face, and rightfully so.

"Good morning," was all I could articulate. I looked down at my feet.

"Dante, I'd like you to meet someone very special to me." Emilio pulled her closer. "This is Janna Salib."

Janna. What a name.

I extended my hand forward gently. "It's a ple- it's good to, you know, meet you."

I cursed myself in my head. Why must I be so awkward?

"The pleasure's all mine." she said with finality, and took my hand with a sly smile. I felt the heat transfer from the pit of my stomach to my cheeks, then to my ears.

Her hand was soft, but cold. I wanted to hold that hand a while longer; I wanted to press it to my chest so that she could feel how it palpitated furiously. I wanted to, but I didn't.

"All right, well, we better get going," Emilio said with a sudden impatience. "I'll catch you around, Dante."

Now I was sure that he sensed the tension; Emilio was usually a conversationalist.

"All right then," I took a step back. "I'll see you later." I looked at Janna one more time. Her piercing gaze cut right into my soul.

The rest of the day, I couldn't stop thinking about her. The mere energy in her presence was like nothing I'd felt before. I wrote ten whole pages that night. It was like the words were flowing out of me like a running faucet. Every neuron in my brain was in a frenzy with her image. I must admit, I felt like a pretty shitty friend but as far as I was concerned, I wasn't hurting anybody. It was a simple crush and nothing more, right? Of course, I let myself indulge in these thoughts knowing perfectly well that my infatuation was anything but simple.

I wasn't certain about a lot of things in my life, but there was one thing I knew for sure: I needed to see her again.

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Author's Note

Goal reached! Thank you all so much for the comments and votes, please keep it up! For this chapter, I want 30 views, 10 votes, and 7 comments to post the next one. I'll be editing and posting Chapter 2 within the next week or so. Also, I've really enjoyed conversing with some of you! Please feel free to reach out and let me know what you think. Your support is much appreciated ❥

Thank you!

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p.s. please don't forget to vote and comment!