A Thousand Heartbreaks

A Moment

I've never really understood everyone's fascination with love. I had been in "love" several times and it never treated me as tenderly as how it had always been portrayed to me and continues to portrayed currently. It honestly sometimes makes me sick. All of this talk about how fantastic, magical, pure and blissful is total bullshit. It was nothing but work and pain all for an outcome of heartbreak and betrayal. Totally unnecessary and avoidable if it wasn't for the chemical reaction in my own brain that so many vary that left me powerless. I once was addicted to this idea of love to like much of the world is, drawn in by its treacherous facade and drugged on dopamine until I couldn't think straight.

I place the book back down on the shelf and scoff at it, turning on my heels and shaking my head as I walk back towards Aunt Lucille. She is standing by some magazines, each cover with a model posed unnaturally with a much too perfect smile and text around them reading "Get the hottest bod to attract the man of your dreams" or "three new fragrances proven to attract your partner this holiday season" or some given celebrities tips on finding love. I sigh lowly as I approach her, and I can see her slightly turn my head and approach. I stay behind her, eyeing the shelf and the printed faces of many stare right back at me.

"It should be criminal to do this," I say picking up a magazine, leafing through it and tossing it back down on the table beside Aunt Lucille. She looks at me scoldingly and inhales sharply, placing the magazine in hand back on the shelf before turning to face me.

"It should be criminal to complain this much," She retorts. Once she turns around I roll my eyes, and look around slowly. An young red headed woman is holding the same book I had in my hands moments before, an older woman is sitting in the cafe a few shelves away sipping on tea with a novel in her hands and a clerk stands nearby stocking Sports Magazines on the shelves, "It should be criminal to be so distasteful to other people's happiness."

"I am not. I don't believe there is true, sustainable happiness from loving someone. And we teach people to strive after something unattainable," I explain, even though I knew it would've been smarter to stay quiet.

"Ahh, and what do you know of love, Victoria?" My aunt says with humor in your voice. My chest gets tight automatically and my fists ball by my sides. I quickly cross my arms to hide the obvious display of anger and annoyance. I know that is what she wants, and I refuse to give her the benefit of doing such a thing.

"Enough."

"Nonsense. You can not blame love for all of those young men leaving, dear. You can only blame yourself. Blame your attitude, blame your lack of discipline, blame your unchecked emotions, blame your competitiveness," She turns back to look at me, her hazel eyes narrowing as she looks me over. I meet her gaze as it takes in every inch of my thin frame, "Blame your looks, or lack there of might I say."

She giggles. The man stocking the shelves turns to look at me. I feel tears forming in my eyes.

"Bold coming from a woman who is on the hunt for husband number five," I hiss under my breathe, spin on my heels and walk away.

I try to make it seem as calm as possible, to not let her see the pure fury and defeat with in each step. Quite frankly, I have to fight very hard not to knock over a display that stands in my way as I make a beeline for the door. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. Why would mom ever want me to have a relationship with such a bitch?

I wind my way down another row of shelves, books lining either side of me. I refuse to turn back around and give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry, she already won by upsetting me enough to leave. She will probably smile at it and watch me walk away in defeat, but I know her smile will not be anywhere as big after what I said. Maybe more of a smirk opposed to a smile. It will continue to fade until she feels a slight amount of anger too. Not just at the comment but that my words had the power to break through her stone cold demeanor.

I keep my head down, grabbing at the ends of my jacket sleeves to dab at my face once I turn this corner. I don't anyone to see me cry. I turn the corner quickly, my shoulder colliding with someone and knocking me off balance momentarily as I knock into one of the shelves. A few books threaten to fall, but none of them make the leap. I steady myself.

"I'm so sorry," I utter quietly, and I can hear my voice crack. I begin to start walking again, but whoever it is reaches out and grabs my upper arm lightly. For a split second, I think it is my Aunt Lucille. I turn around, and I am greeted by the face of the man who had been stocking the magazine shelves. His hair is dark and slightly curled, his eyes are somewhat sad, but more curious than anything, and his mouth is turned down in the slightest frown. He pulls a white and gold cloth from his inside jacket pocket and hands it to me. For a moment, I had forgotten about the tears in my eyes and the ones that had trailed down my checks. I pause hesitantly, and he leans slightly closer to me.

"I insist," He says in a low, deep voice. It feels strange to have his voice so close to my ear, but somewhat soothing as well. I gingerly take the handkerchief from his hands. It has the initials SVK are beautifully embroidered along the edges in a fancy cursive script, that loops around the entirety of the silky cloth. I dab at my face and sniffle, I look at up at him and he is looking slightly past me. When I finish wiping my face, I fix my hunched posture and take a shaker breath in and exhale slowly. I fix a slight smile for him, and he turns back to look at me and I can see his eyes brighten slightly in within his gaze.

"Thank you," I say, lifting up the cloth to give back to him before I realize that there are now black blotches splattered across it from my mascara and slight brown rubbed off from my cheeks. I scowl at it and look up at him, my cheeks flustered from the embarrassment, "I am so sorry, I can wash it and get these stains out."

He chuckles at my panic, "Don't worry about it."

"No, just let me fix it. It would only be polite, especially since you were kind enough to let me use it," I continue, practically cutting him off. He chuckles again and smiles at me, I look at the his forehead above his eyes ignoring his smile. I nervously fidget with the cloth in my fingertips. I note his smell, its something like light and savory mixed in with his bookstore uniform underneath the black jacket.

"If you insist, but it truly isn't a problem," I smile slightly and tuck the cloth into my pocket. I nod at him and walk past him, towards the front door. Buttoning up my coat to prepare for the chilly air outside. My finger are shaking as I do so from the embarrassment, but I try my hardest to concentrate on slipping each one through its slit, "Hey," he says from behind me, and I look over my shoulder to face him, "She was wrong, you know."

"Wrong about what?" I ask.

"About your looks, about you not being beautiful," He says, looking not at my body but just my eyes. I laugh at that. I want to tell him that I disagree adamantly, but I remember my mothers words urging me to never appear unconfident, for there is no more unattractive trait. I tuck a strand of my brown hair behind my ear and look at him once more. Studying his face, so I can remember who he is when I return with his handkerchief later on in the week. But the longer I look, the harder it becomes for me to deny how satisfying his face looks under the warm glow of the bookstore's lights.

"I am not interested, eavesdropper," And with that, I turn and casually exit the bookstore. Despite the cold air outside, there is a dull warm feeling in my chest. It doesn't last long, Aunt Lucille comes outside soon enough and I laugh at how embarrassing and uncomfortable that interaction was. My numb fingers brushing over the initials in my pocket.