I wrote a story, it's not good. Erica you wont like it because it is short.
I don't really need comments or anything, this is one of those stories where I decided punctuation is for losers, sorry if that bothers you. Mostly I am posting because I don't want to lose it. However, if you like it or hate it a lot, feel free to tell me so, and please tell me why too.
I haven’t seen her anywhere except in my dreams for the past five years; but I still have the paint sample I picked out for the color of our bedroom walls when I was 16, and still innocent enough to believe I could have her. In my dreams, the only love of my 21 year old life is beautiful in the tragic way of Dickinson or Wolff. With Kinky hair and flashing grey eyes she tore into my life the summer I turned sixteen. She was a late twenty something spinster who wrote her own songs and played folk rock on her Washburn acoustic. I was the girl working the counter that open mic night at the local cramped coffee bar. It was over a year before I could bring myself to write her, telling her how I wished she’d come back and play sometime. I signed it I love you but I didn’t leave my name. I sent it to the used book store she managed in the village; they sponsored our open mic night from time to time. I found the address on the old event bill the one with her picture on it that I had saved from that night (for obvious reasons some of them honorable), and before I could change my mind I just mailed it away. Cara used to travel New York State with ever changing destinations, always to another coffee bar filled with college kids hopped up on knowledge, caffeine and cigarettes. A small part of me is glad she never made it big, because she sings like it’s what she was born to do; and I wouldn’t want her to lose that in a mess of recording studio lights and a prerecorded back up band. When folk rock singers get big they have a profound way of selling out, they go from acoustic guitar to techno, from living in a car and singing about real things to wearing black leather suits and dating movie stars, trying to pretend that their current lifestyle somehow facilitates the growth of their tortured artistic soul. Cara was different though, when she picks up her guitar, light shines through her, and no matter who you are you cannot look away, I don’t think that is something easily lost, or gained. At sixteen I was sure she was everything I needed to make my life complete, I was sure we would live together in a seedy little apartment I’d write, she’d sing. At seventeen I graduated high school top of my class, then I packed up and went to college in the city. Four years and an English degree later, is where I find myself today. I’m twenty-one but in twenty-eight days I will be twenty-two, and as a little pre-birthday gift to myself last night I got drunk on a bottle and a half of Nyquil while the operator and I tracked her down. Sure enough she is still in Greenwich, and based on little to no research I am going to assume my Cara is still playing her Washburn and writing songs about the city that never shuts up. I am also going to assume she is still twenty-eight, because I can’t imagine her another way. Her flat is only about a thirty minute commute from my shitty post college life, my tiny studio apartment, my English degree backed job in a bookstore, complete with dreams of what I want to be when I grow up while in the meantime I am busy getting old. This year instead of celebrating my second annual twenty-first birthday by getting falling down drunk, I am going to do something I will remember the morning after. I am going to knock on her door, maybe I will bring flowers, maybe I will bring my girlfriend.