xxxxxIt may very well
have been the stupidest thing she'd ever done. At the time, it seemed
like a good idea. He wanted to know who she was, wanted to know
who she was, wanted to be sure of her feelings for him.
xxxxx"Hell, why not?" she
thought as she handed him her journal, stating earnestly: "I
have nothing to hide. I want you to see me."
xxxxxThey were just feelings after
all, just thoughts. Fading in and out, the way the seasons pass.
Hot, then cold; raining, then dry. Just emotions-some good, some
bad- totaling, in essence, everything, and absolutely nothing.
xxxxxUnfortunately, he didn't feel
xxxxx"Fuck," the first text
xxxxx"We need to talk," followed
the second. And so, she called.
xxxxxHe demanded to know why she hadn't
told him she felt that way. And not in just a curious way, but in
an angry, "I'm really pissed off" kind of tone. What was
she supposed to say? Given his response, it was probably good she
xxxxxWhen she arrived at this apartment
he threw the book across the room. "I don't know if I love
you anymore," he stated flatly. "I'm not even sure I know
who you are."
xxxxxShe realized then she'd made a
mistake. Because the problem was that now, if ever, he knew exactly
who she was.
The Elitists say: Melissa story is what sold us here. Granted
there are a few problems with it, like the last sentence isn't really
needed, but GEE WHIZ she only had an hour! I can't help but wonder
what kind of story line Melissa could come up with if she had
say two hours.