The Art of Love

Love is overrated. At least that's how I feel after sucking back more than a few shots of Jack Daniels. What is love supposed to be anyway? Can you describe it? Is it even possible to describe? The dictionary definition of the word—if used as a noun—is defined as an intense feeling of deep affection. But those six words ... do they actually convey the meaning of love, or is love more akin to the flame of a candle where in the beginning it sparks its brightest, but overtime the flame begins to wither into nonexistence?

I remember when I first met Selena. I was working on my grade eleven media studies assignment in the library when she walked in, the front portion of her hair highlighted in blond, wearing a shirt that read YOU ARE WHAT YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE. Aside from her aesthetics, it was the shirt that caught my attention because it was true. A feeling of obligation to inquire who she believed she was washed over me, so I quickly tidied up my belongings and made a beeline to her location in the third aisle where all the philosophical books were located. 

I figured my approach was a little strong by the way she jumped back and held a copy of The Poverty of Philosophy close to her chest, as if hugging it was a shield that would've protected her from all strangers. Startling her out of her socks didn't make a good first impression, I know, but she eventually lowered her guard after I extended my hand and introduced myself. It wasn't until we'd finished our conversation and she smiled—not only with her mouth, but with her eyes in which I saw the cosmos—that I made the decision I was going to spend the rest of my life with her.

At least so I thought.

I had organized an intimate outdoors event, bringing her to the same park we had our first date on, and I couldn't tell if I was sweating because I was nervous or because of the scorching heat coming from the sun. With the way my shirt stuck on to my skin you'd believe I had just stepped out of a swimming pool; at least that's how it felt anyway, not that it mattered because just as I was about to go down on one knee she said the two words that no gentleman wants to hear.

"It's over." Selena wiped the sorrow away from her strawberry red cheeks. My hand remained frozen in my pocket, clenched to the heart shaped engagement ring box I had ordered two weeks prior. "I'm sorry but I can't do this." She sniffed back and rubbed at her moist eyes as if she couldn't believe what was happening. "Not right now, Albert."

The birds that were chirping from the trees faded into silence, my surroundings melting away into obscurity. Just like that the love of my life turned around and walked away. She didn't stop to look back or have the courtesy to offer an explanation as to why. She just kept walking, and walking, and walking, even passing the picnic bench we shared our first kiss twelve years ago. It was at that moment where tears welled in my eyes and my heart jumped to my throat. She's never coming back.

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I stand on my balcony with less than half a bottle of Jack in my hand, replaying that incident over and over in my mind as if it were on a loop recording. You'd think burying yourself in a bottle of whiskey would drown your sorrows, but it only suffocates you with harsher memories. There isn't a day that goes by where I don't think about it—where I don't think about her. How she would laugh so hard until she snorted at something funny on the television, the sound of her high pitched sneeze which always reminded me of a kitten meowing, the way in which she gyrated her hips, singing to herself while preparing dinner whenever she thought I wasn't looking, or the times we would share secrets that even our parents didn't know about. It's those little incidents and knowing I'll never get to experience them again that keep me awake at nights.

I believed deleting the selfies we took together off of my cellphone and Instagram page would ease the pain. It didn't. I actually waited a few weeks before I did, hoping that she would've at least given me a call—at the very least a simple text. Nothing. My naivety got the best of me. I tried calling her several times; no answer. Left her more than a few dozen voicemails; no reply.