Rough draft

New York-1955

He was in love. Once. He even told his parents. Told them, the romance was just like the movies and her smile, a sparkle, a sparkle that no Miss had come close to his heart of affairs.
He gathered them around and gleefully announced that if she accepted, he would propose marriage.


The time was exact. Her favorite season, Autumn lingered in the air windy and light. She then brought out her grandmother's trunk of sweaters. All colors, she wore them fitted to form and matched the favorite lipstick, fire and ice.

He was her fateful meeting. They met at the bottom of the apartment stairs. He with a rose each time, sparkle she.

Out into the evening, a stroll became an intensity inside his bowels. Not five hours before, the confession, "she was the one" became a bare sentiment of the parts of his brain, uniform, past and fantasies. He held her hand tight as she conversed in breaks, in gasps, but he could only hear panic. He frantically interrupted and made certain she knew, he only liked speaking to her, he only loved being with her.

Interruption. Closed blinds. Shut down.

Dear love:

I wish much joy. I am incomplete satisfaction. A matchless eye to yours. I am not a man of dignity or force of which could give you the pleasures of love that I have convinced you of. I hate the habit of inaccurate observation, not of you again, but my intolerable miserable poverty-stricken attitude. There is a shade of uncertainty in my life I have yet to examine. When I am in your deepest company, your clear brain of science and nature, leaves me at a longing to destroy my nimble moving hands as I write this to you. You are a heart alive to all beauties of nature. I am not entitled to worth or sanity. At the point in our heat and passion, I only lived in the moment, but now I concieve myself to be a found liar.

No sorry or strong desire for
forgiveness will ever happen between us,
Raynard


The letter arrived first day of snow. After two months of no contact. All her sweaters were neatly put away and she sat on the trunk to unseal the letter.
The conculsion cannot be escaped. For all she knew died in lessons of old philosphy.