I’ve been having dreams lately; to that, one might say, “Well, Christopher, everyone has dreams. What’s so special about yours?” In response, I would say, “Of course everyone has dreams, but what if you thought your dreams were a little more than dreams?”
Recently, my dreams have consisted of a land of wild vegetation and primitive-looking civilizations. Different creatures, which I’ve never seen before, roamed the plains, and a girl, a girl in very peculiar clothing, would fight them off. It was a land teeming with magic, and the magic was purely, well, magic! I guess the best way to describe them would be that they looked like the special effects in some high-budget superhero movie. That girl whom I was talking about earlier would use magic. I’m completely serious. Magical energy, which looked like blue fire, would shoot forth from her hands and kill the creatures. And I can’t help but pay attention to the idea tugging on the edge of my mind that said, “Christopher, these are not just dreams.”
Boy, Freud would have tons of fun figuring out the different crap that’s going on in this head.
As I pondered this, I swirled the milk and unsweetened wheat Cheerios in my cereal bowl with my spoon. Yeah, this is how I think on a daily basis; after all, what’s an unemployed, teen college graduate supposed to do?
And here comes Thaddeus. “Hey, sport,” said my father.
“Hello, Thaddeus,” I said in my own quiet way.
Without the frequent lecture on calling him “dad”, he tossed the newspaper next to my bowl and sat in the chair opposite to me. The paper was opened to the jobs page. “It looks like that war is still going on. What a travesty.” I was about to say “which one, dumbass”, but he kept running his mouth. “Anyway, look through the classifieds. Our department head is looking for a secretary, but if you don’t want to do that, at least look through the classifieds. I think you’d be well-suited for a job, especially the secretary job.”
I sighed and picked up the paper, flipping from the classifieds to the front page. As I eyed the first article, I said, “Thaddeus, I’m perfectly content with resting my butt on the couch and casually curling up to a good Dickens novel.”
“Christopher, you’ve read David Copperfield too many times to count.”
Getting up with the used silverware and glass cereal bowl in hand, I lied, “I’ll think about the job thing.”
After I put the bowl and utensils in the sink, I headed to the door with my keys and jacket and glanced over my shoulder, “I’m going to go see Lynn. Ciao.” And with that, I left.
Unlike me, Lynn is still in high school. To be exact, she is a junior at Westview. I’ll never forget how we met. After all, what kind of guy would forget the first girl that turned him down? Males in general are pretty prideful, so the answer is none. Long story short, back when I wasn’t such a lazy ass, I always attended the city museum’s art class, which Lynn happened to attend all the time. Eventually, with my persistent attempts at verbal communication, we met, and we started to hang out. About a few months later, we started to date. Yay for happy endings. Granted that she asked me out, but still: yay for happy endings.
She is a pretty cool girlfriend, and I think she feels vice versa about me except, you know, I’m her boyfriend. While I have no talent, Lynn is a master digital artist. Unlike me, she hates reading unless the book is a comic book. Unlike me, she is totally into mainstream music. And unlike me, she has tons of friends, guys and girls.
I don’t mind it, though. She has her strengths and weaknesses, and I have my strengths and weaknesses. At least, that’s what the rational part of me thinks. I, as a hormonal teenager, want to curl into a ball and start crying at the fact that I’m a jealous book nerd who is into bands that no one but stoners knows about and who has no friends. Lovely life.
Despite Lynn’s feelings for me, her mom did not approve. Mrs. Crawford was not exactly too keen on the idea of her daughter dating a guy fresh out of college, even though the college was Harvard (not a crazy partying college) and I’m just a year older than Lynn. Still, for the sake of Lynn's happiness, Mrs. Crawford let us date.
I rang the doorbell and when the door opened, a stout woman with bouncy, blonde hair answered the door. I greeted Mrs. Crawford nicely even with her glaring eyes staring at me and walked past her smoothly.
Lynn’s house was small and very homely. It looked like a grandmother’s house, the kind that you’d see in movies. The floors were made of old-fashioned fuzzy, gray carpet, and the walls were painted teal. Pictures of Lynn’s family were in frames and hanging on the walls. I reached the door at the end of the hallway, which was Lynn’s room, and when I knocked gently, I heard a girl yell incoherently.
“Lynn, it’s Christopher,” I said, “I’m coming in.”
Lynn’s room was a typical artist’s room: askew and messy. The shelves were lined up with graphic design and instructional Photoshop books, and old stuffed animals from her childhood complemented the beige walls of her bedroom. After a few seconds, Lynn noticed my presence and swiveled around in her chair.
She has blonde hair and blue eyes like her mother, but instead of it being bouncy, her hair was clearly straight. Her serious demeanor changed into something light and carefree at the sight of me. “Hey, Christopher.”
I sat on her floral patterned bed, and she sat in her chair.
“How was school?” I said eagerly.
“Oh, well, the usual…” Lynn started as she began to list off everything she did at school.
This was our usual routine. I’d ask her how her day was, she’d tell me every little detail, and I would absorb everything like a sponge. Usually, guys would hate listening to their girlfriends, but I loved it. It was like I was reading a story that I had never known, never heard about, and never read reviews for it. The story of an average high school life. You might say that I’m using her just for that since I hadn’t mentioned at all why I wanted her as my girlfriend. Well, I am using her for that. I totally am, and I’m not proud of it. Just count your blessings that it’s not sex.
“Christopher? Christopher,” Lynn repeated, trying to get my attention.
“Hm?”
Lynn smiled and said, “Christopher, what are you thinking about?”
I stuttered but said nothing that sounded like words.
Lynn laughed and said, “I was saying, do you love me?”
Being the clever thinker that I am, I blurted, “Love is a very, um, strong term. It’s an emotion of affection and personal attachment. Love could also mean friendship.” Yep. Really clever.
Lynn stared at me and said, “Chris. We’ve been dating for a year now. Really, you couldn’t have had any strong feelings for me without wanting to break up with me.”
Don't call me Chris, and of course not, Lynn. I don’t want to break up with you; otherwise, you wouldn’t tell me about your life anymore. Wow, that sounded really bad. At least I didn’t say it out loud.
A silence was starting to arise, so I shot out whatever I could think of, “Don’t you think we’re too young to understand what relationship love really is? You know, the love that you’re thinking of is the kind of love that married couples deal with. And we’re not even married. I think you're expecting too much.”
Lynn stared at me, probably in shock and rage at what I said, and I, sick of this talk, got up and left. Just like that. I walked out of her room and out of the house. Got in my car and drove off to my house.
I’m a dick.
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