He promised to love her no matter what her past is, and so they made love for the first time. After the libido subsided, and while they lay spent in bed, she confessed that she has herpes.
They met online, emailed, talked on the phone for over a year, and finally, they were going to meet. Her heart pounded as she sat waiting, her hand in her pocket on the gun she would use to kill the man who had lured her baby sister to her death.
I’d love to be with you!
(You’re not going to get fat are you?)
Now that I’ve declared my love for you I can expect protracted negotiations, give and take, threats, bribes, and then, perhaps, a signing of some type of accord.
Or … you could just say you love me too?
Alfredo hurried home earlier than usual, to report to his wife about his situation at work, and how he was laid off along with fifteen hundred others.
Panting for air in between sobbing and breathing, he opened the master bedroom, only to find his spouse naked in bed with another man.
The great thing about being in love is that you don’t have a lot of conversations about being in love.
That you wanted to talk about it the other night gives me pause.
You’re not the last thing on my mind.
You’re around the high three thousands.
I am in love with you.
The love you missed is more painful than the love you lost.
Neither hurt as much as the love you throw away.
I’m in love again, finally.
Oh double cheese-burger, you little tart, I love you!
She paced the floor over and over, cursing his very being, dreaming of how many ways she would tear him apart for putting her through this misery again, when he arrived home, which he always did, with a stupid look on his face and a lame excuse emanating from his lips.
No matter how much she loved him, she would teach him a lesson this time she vowed, until the knock on the front door accompanied by the two uniformed police officers, brought her world to a crashing halt.
Love found me.
I said, “now you go hide”.
As the sun set on Jacaranda St, Mrs Jones cut sponge cake into squares and dipped each piece carefully into thick chocolate paste and rolled through the coconut, just as her mother once taught her. But as the shrill of the kettle peaked to a new high, Mr Jones collapsed in his chair, his biscuit falling into his coffee: he was gone at last.
I have the tears of a snowman at the kiss of your sun, welcoming your fire with a scarf slipping askew.
When you go, I will be the space left behind, warmed but empty.
Dreams have always lingered. You are helping me make them a reality.
Angela was consumed with fear each time her husband left the house thanks to the increase in crime in her neighborhood so she secretly bought a gun to protect herself. One morning the security alarm went off so Angela ran down the stairs and shot the shadowy figure that was trespassing; Angela turned on the light only to find her husband lying in a pool of blood holding a bouquet of roses.
We have taught each other so much in the time we’ve spent together.
You’ve taught me about love and hope and justice and I’ve taught you about lentils and parachute pants and how to fold little paper dogs out of any spare scrap you find.
I thought I had an endless supply of slim gold bars of love to hand around with reckless abandon.
Imagine my surprise to turn up to my warehouse to find it sold, a dingy coffee-house in its place.
We made the biscuits and shipped them off to those poor kids overseas.
We made love and thought highly of ourselves.