Love, Aristotle

prologue

Damon

I dropped my cigarette, watching the smoke die down as it fell to the ground.

The fire burning in me, for her, ignited once more, stronger than the last time as the thought of her crossed my mind.

The flame never died down, which was extremely dangerous. Not for me, but for her. I didn't give a fuck, she was the reason I looked forward to the future. A tomorrow with her, was a tomorrow worth everything. It was insignificant, it was nothing compared to the entire universe, but it was us.

Aristotle Martin was the sonnets to my piano, the sun to my flowers, the rain to the clouds in my sky, the stars to my universe, the light in the darkness that surrounded me.

I'd like to think I was all that to her but I wasn't. Even though she told me constantly how much she loves me. I knew better.

She was saving me from myself but I was drowning her with the darkness embedded in me. I knew she'd break, eventually.

But there's no use in dwelling on that right now. In about fifteen minutes, I'm picking her up and I'm taking her out on a date.

It was eight thirty and I was drowning in a pool of nervousness. It happened whenever I took her out. I always made sure everything was perfect but if something went wrong, if she didn't like it, well, I'd feel like shit.

"I don't care what we do Damon," she laughed, "as long as I'm with you, I'm happy. I promise, baby. The moments with you, they're special. It's everything to me."

She was one for big words and that poetic shit. I was the complete opposite. It was most difficult for me to put my feelings into actual words. Which made me seem like an asshole. Heartless.

I was all those things but to her, I was everything. To her, I was special.

If I wanted to tell her I love her, I'd do it but I'd kiss her with so much fucking passion, I wouldn't even need to say it. She should know, I'm crazy about her.

If I was angry, I'd go somewhere to take my anger out. Usually, it was into someone. Or something. I went to an underground fighting ring, she hated it but understood me.

If I was sad, I'd let her hold me while I thought about it.

I didn't need to say it, I couldn't. I didn't know how.

She always knew.

Alexithymia, she called it. She said there was a word for everything. I told her I thought it was bullshit.

But deep down I believed her.

I had told her there was something wrong with me. She said, "Okay? So what? I wouldn't love you if you were perfect."

Ari was a bluntly kind person. I admired that about her. She'd always be honest with you.

Looking up at the sky, the stars glistened back at me. I let out a sigh, allowing the thought of her ease my mind. Something I did often, thinking of her. My Aristotle.

Ari.

Mine.

My shoulders relaxed and I breathed out that last drag of smoke.

She hated when I smoked but she never judged me about it.

I smoked because I thought it'd kill me slowly. And it was, killing me slowly but every day, she brought me back to life and that's all that mattered to me.

Cigarettes took the burden this cruel world had placed over me and gave me a break.

I couldn't stop.