Whose Story Is It?
On a snowy afternoon, Nichole sat in the caf� of her local Barnes and Noble, trying to feel inspired. The snow drifted gently from the sky, falling into the parking lot. For a moment it remained white, but then a car drove by and the freshly fallen snow turned to grey slush. Not very inspirational. Nevertheless, holiday instrumentals played softly in the background, and she felt festive. The warm cocoa flushed her cheeks when she drank, warming her as it slid down her throat. She closed her eyes and reveled in that feeling of comfort and security that sprang from childhood memories of sledding.
When she opened her eyes, she saw her laptop sitting in front of her. The word processor was open, the cursor blinking like an eye, expectant, demanding. She took in the surroundings of the books around her. How could she not feel inspired, stuck in the middle of so much creation? A creative buzz floated through the air, like a mist. A stream of words she could not drink from. She could almost see it pouring from the plethora of books on the shelves. If only it would seep into her, instead of wafting by like the steam from her cocoa.
A young couple on the other side of the caf� caught her attention. The young man was whispering something into the girl�s ear, a smile on his face. When he moved his lips from her ear, she giggled into her coffee, blushing. Nichole smiled to herself, wondering what it was he said. A private joke? A compliment perhaps? Something dirty? Whatever it was, the girl looked happy.
I remember that day he whispered in my ear and made me blush, Nichole typed. I think that was the day I fell in love with him. His words entered my ear and sank into my stomach. I felt warm on that cold winter day. I fell in love with his warmth.
* * *
People always say, �write what you know.� I couldn�t think of anything better to write about, so I decided to do just that, write what I know. If there�s anything I know, it�s that relationships change, people change, and everything falls apart in the end. That should make for an interesting story. Everybody else in my writing class was always writing about the degradation of the human race, I would just write about the degradation of the human heart.
I settled myself on my tiny dorm room bed, buried under blankets like a little Eskimo author, about to embark on my tale of cold. I turned my stereo on as loud as it would go and got out my pen and paper. I can type much faster, but I can�t stand the blinking cursor, issuing its warning: in the blink of an eye, this message will self-destruct.
A blank page. A big fat nothingness, just like my life. I started writing.
I remember that day he whispered in my ear and made me blush. I think that was the day I fell in love with him. His words entered my ear and sank into my stomach. I felt warm on that cold winter day. I fell in love with his warmth. �You look so delicious, I want to nibble on you instead of this cookie,� he said. I was still shy then and I blushed like the schoolgirl that I was. This is what he liked about me. I was raw, unspoiled. Not in that dirty way, where he wanted to be the one to spoil me or anything. He wasn�t a perv. I think he just appreciated my honesty. I didn�t know enough to be ashamed of things. Nobody had taught me to be afraid of my body yet.
On that winter day, I only felt the excitement of falling in love for the first time. Really in love. Not that eighth grade kind of love, where you hold hands every day and talk on the phone for hours. I had done that. I was finally in high school and everything was different. Falling in love with Ian was like falling in love with myself. It was so familiar. He knew me inside and out before we even met.
* * *
After typing the first few lines, Nichole paused to look at the young couple. She found it strange how amidst such wisdom and genius, she took her inspiration from a couple twenty years younger than her. �There is something special about young people in love,� she thought to herself. �They are so na�ve, but in the best way possible. They haven�t learned to fear love, and so they give themselves wholly to each other.�
Nichole searched the face of the young girl on the other side of the caf�, looking for the pain or fear or shame that would eventually appear, if it hadn�t already. An odd sense of relief washed over her when she saw nothing but unadulterated joy. After laughing and taking a sip of her coffee, the young girl turned back to face her boyfriend. Her eyes shone like two polished crystal balls that reflected not the images of the future- heartbreak to be sure- but the simple image of the young man smiling back at her.
It was so familiar, Nichole began typing again. He knew me inside and out before we even met. When he asked if he could sit next to me in the cafeteria, of course I said yes. He looked too cute to say no. And right when I was nervous, trying to think of what we could talk about, what lowly me could even have to say to this cute guy, he just turned to me and said �this is some pasta, isn�t it� with his fork lifted two inches off his plate, and the nasty cafeteria pasta hanging limply down, and a big grin on his face. We both burst out laughing, and I haven�t stopped since.
After that, we started eating lunch together every day. Ethan bought, and I brought, but eventually we just shared everything. That�s how it was with us. We were one. Except that it took him three weeks of shared lunches before he finally asked me out. I didn�t think he got nervous, but there he was, stammering away like he was about to propose or something. I said yes quickly, to ease his pain, the poor guy.
I was anxious to spend time alone with Ethan, but it quickly became apparent that that was not going to happen. Neither of us were old enough to drive yet, so his mom gave us a ride to the theater. The movie was packed full of teenagers making out, but we hadn�t even kissed yet, so it just made everything worse. In fact, the only time we spent alone was when he walked me to my door after the movie. His mom watched from the van.
�Thanks Ethan, I had a good time,� I lied with a smile. Well, mostly lied. It was a little fun.
�Me too,� he said nervously, taking me hand and glancing back at his mom. He didn�t say anything else, just shifted from one foot to the other.
�Well, I guess I should go inside now. I�ll see you on Monday.� I turned a little, to go inside, and he lunged toward me, planting a wet kiss on my lips. Or rather, he attempted to plant a wet kiss on my lips. He mostly got my cheek, with a little bit of upper lip thrown in for good measure. I was glad it was not my first kiss, but pretty sure it was his. Once he withdrew, he dropped my hand and ran to his mom�s van, calling out a hasty goodbye on the way.
I wondered what lunch would be like on Monday, if anything would be different. I wondered if we were dating now, or if we had just been on a date.
* * *
As I wrote the first couple lines of my manuscript, I tried to think back to those first weeks with Ian, what I felt like, how everything happened. But the more I wrote down, the more I realized that I couldn�t just write what had happened. My character was me, but she was taking on a life of her own. Apparently she had her own story to tell, and as similar to mine as it may have been, it was not my story. �Where are you taking me?� I asked aloud, immediately glad no one was around to hear me talking to the girl I created on the page in front of me. �Where are you taking me,� I said again, softly, as I began to write again.
neb 11/23/04
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