Summer School

She always told me that she never liked those cheesy fairy tale stories, romantic movies, or believed in poetry. That love at first sight was the greatest lie, spoon fed to dreamers everywhere. In fact, the first time we met, it seemed that all she could do - was refrain from opening with how much she hated love stories, how that instead of her name, she would rather introduce her dislike for everything that had to do with romance.

It wasn't that she was vulgar, or unattractive, as many who believe loveless people to be, painting pictures of them in their heads as intolerable creatures brokenly cast from society, spewing their disgust at the happiness of others. No. Instead she was rather beautiful. Not delicate or frail, but with soft eyes and a grace in each step that I don't even think she realized herself. It is always the artists who are the harshest on themselves, drawing into madness to attain perfection, resulting in a trail of forgotten masterpieces. And she was no different.

Except that, I don't think she ever truly believed that anything she did was special. Perhaps this was what drew me to her the most. That made me forget the simple words like hello, or the answers to questions that I knew by heart. That made me forget the importance of a façade for the rest of the world.