He spent most of that day at the carnival hungry and thirsty; he had spent all his money trying to win a Pikachu, knowing it was her favorite.
She, in the meantime, had hooked up with a football player, who neither knew nor cared who her favorite Pokemon was; nor, indeed, exactly what her name was.
She has gradually given bits of herself away — to her children, her friends, and now her grandchildren, each receiving portions of a beauty she had little time to enjoy when she was younger.
Beauty, of course, is made of broken things: days and hours, broken by fatigue; hearts and dreams, broken by the whims of fate and ill-kept promises — but what she spends is never truly spent.
Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday growing up: better than New Year’s, with it’s wild abandon; better than Valentine’s Day, which was pointless for him; better than Halloween, which did not appeal to him at all; even better than the universally popular Christmas, with it’s developed and far-reaching traditions.
For his family, Thanksgiving was about one meal, held in the early middle afternoon; sitting down, as a family, to use the best china they owned and have the best meal they had all year — it was easy to be thankful, really.
He would have done anything in the world to be the best at what he did, except maybe apply himself to his craft.
Since a career as a flourishing tree seemed impossible, he chose instead a career as a vine, attempting to choke the life out of whatever trees he could find.
They walked there once, on a date, trying to figure out if they were compatible.
She decided they weren’t, and then decided he thought so, too.
.
(that was the Original version)
They walked there once, on a date, trying to figure out if they were compatible.
He decided they were, and then decided she must think so, too.
.
(this is an Alternative version)
When they were both seven years old, a girl and boy played on an old tire swing almost every day.
They were to young too know boys and girls can’t be friends.
At last, the sun goes down; the walker leans upon his walking stick, looking across the fields at the edge of the forest. What barriers there are, he thinks, will one day be taken down; what separates us, he believes, is nothing we can’t help each other to get over.
She was a phoenix to me, there in her bohemian clothes with her large coffee; constantly changing, always alive, magical, distant, and fascinating. I, on the other hand, was a train station to her: close, familiar, and no longer worth noticing or commenting on.
