The Paper

I guess I should clarify. Even though the following story does have some fictitious elements (I may or may not have altered people's words to make it more interesting) it was for the most part a true account. And when I proclaimed that I wrote it dealing with what I know now that I didn't know before I meant it. I now know I should never have been dating that boy and no longer do. So here is the full copy of my paper. Enjoy!

The Coffee Shop
…moved deliberately, her hands cupping the books she would ponder over, into the coffee shop that she loved so much. He followed closely behind her with books of his own and the heels of his chestnut cowboy boots clicked rhythmically after them. The air around them was filled with a stagnant annoyance it seemed to hover around them more often each passing day. They had bickered over the arrival to the coffee shop, where they would go, and now where they would sit. She was beginning to think it was the only way they knew how to converse anymore. With rapid steps she placed her things on one of the available arm chairs thinking he would do the same; he did not. Joining him at the counter her face wore a sullen look as she folded her arms refusing to speak. Glancing over her shoulder she watched as the seat next to her things was quickly taken by another tense college occupant.
“Great, now where will you sit,” she hissed tersely. He threw a look towards the seats. “Somewhere,” he muttered with an accompanying shrug. Her eyes darkened as her body tensed and she tossed her straw colored hair over her shoulder. “Fine.” Sitting down she grabbed her book and tried to immerse herself into the pages wishing to escape from the narrative that was seemingly her life. The book was the most beautiful at the last page, in her opinion, and so she began there. “…a last a loved a long the” She turned the words over in her mouth, at first whispering them and then speaking them to no one. It troubled her that she could not make them sound as exquisite as the girl in the class who had recited the passage. The words were written a dozen times over in her notebook in varying script and yet they never lost their meaning unlike most.
He sat across the room from her and she stole looks at him from time to time. It was a sight she had become familiar with after three years or so. Head in hand, shaggy auburn hair splaying across his face that held a look of deep concentration. Headphones in. A short sleeve shirt featuring some obscure band or the more embarrassing cartoon character. Slim dark wash jeans that were just too short to meet their mark and of course the ever present cowboy boots tap tap tapping. A seat had emptied beside him and he motioned her over. Her eyes became slits as she glared back at him; he knew she detested shifting places once she had settled in one place. It was part of her neurotic obsessive compulsive disorder which included counting the number of sips she took of a drink and how long she could inhale the smoke from a hookah. And yet, still he called to her and she found herself making the way across the tables. Having previously been lonely in her tiny corner she determined to revive the evening and positioned a smile upon her face.
“What are you reading about?”
He looked at her fleetingly before returning to the book. She wondered if he even noticed her anymore and it reminded her of a quote. Perhaps it was Mark Twain who had once described how various people could lose the ability to see beauty. He spoke of the sailor who could only see channels and pitfalls in the rivers instead of the splatter of colors and life and the doctor who only saw sickness in the blush of a striking woman. Had he lost the ability to see her splendor she thought as she read her cherished lines again, “…a last a loved a long the”
“Enterprise resource planning. It consists of numbers and figures. I hate my business classes with their pompous students whose only concern is what poison they can pour down their throats next.”
“Do you enjoy the subject?”
“No.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because it will make me more marketable,” he quipped and gave her an irritated look.
She looks away, faltering as she spoke again, “I see. Well, I quite enjoy the things I read and do. I cannot fathom if I didn’t.” She hoped he could not see her insides slowly caving into themselves. True, she enjoyed the experience, yet somehow she continuously missed the meaning and was often left hoping no one could see through the mirrors. The music wafted between them and it angered her with its carefree crooning. He looked at her book.
"What is this?"
"The most highbrow piece of literature ever written encompassing everything that has ever been written, ever."
She repeated the words that had been uttered so often in her classroom but they were empty coming from her mouth. She had yet to understand what they truly meant only that they should mean it.
"Ok..."
He snatched the book from her lap flipping through the pages robotically. His eyes skimmed the pages but it was clear he had no intention of absorbing. Finally he placed it on the table and turned his attention back to her.
"Well this is utter nonsense."
"Well kind of, you just have to know what to do with it. These words are words you know, they just look different, and see right here it's referencing Adam and Eve. It's like a puzzle."
"Did this man make money off this book? Maybe I should just write a whole bunch of damn letters in a row and call it art. This is gibberish."
She clutched the book to her chest protectively. “It’s like what a math problem is to you. You have to analyze and solve it using prior knowledge. But besides that it is wholly striking and resonant in certain areas. Take this it’s my favorite passage: ‘…a last a loved a long the,’” she peered up with hope in her eyes that the words would take hold of him as they had her.
“It’s nonsense.”
Defeated, she clasps his business book and shifted through the endless pages of cold hard words before throwing it upon the table with a resounding thud.
“This is nonsense.”
“I have a major with actual theory and facts. You have a major where you read pretend books and come to pretend conclusions. You could say the sky was fucking purple and your teachers would congratulate you on your inventiveness. What’s the use of stories that aren’t even real? Numbers are real. Facts are real. These are pretty words arranged in a pretty pattern that “intellectuals” tell us are profound.”
She turned away from him as the tears swelled in her eyes. She would remain silent, she always did. She went back to her book and her words and her fake stories and thought that sometimes fiction was better than reality. Purposefully, she slid her laptop from its container and flicked it on. With a final sigh she began to drum upon her laptop as she typed her ballad of misery.
She staggered into her class the next morning a zombie. The ideas that encompassed her head felt meaningless and vacant. She had lost faith in the beauty she had previously witnessed in the words just the following night. She sunk into her chair and prepared for the nonsensical droning her classmates and professor were sure to offer. They were just words and words meant nothing, they couldn’t defend against a world of numbers.
Her professor cued up her blog and she peered up, awakened from her pitiful fog. He solicited her to read through it, which she did with vigor attempting to add just the right tone to capture the humor of it all. The class filled with laughter and she beamed. She wasn’t stupid to think the words were enchanting.
“You know, you should probably disassociate yourself from this boy,” her professor lectured with a hint of a smirk.
The weeks passed and she further submerged herself into the class and philosophy behind the books. She became raptured by the words that were laid down before her. Swallowing the pill, she chose to not turn back.
For the life of me I cannot remember whatever made us think we were wise. Do we mean love, when we say love? I can't go on. I'll go on. If you do not love me I shall not be loved if I do not love you I shall not love. None that I love more than myself. I don’t think we’ll ever be wise. In my end is my beginning. A lone a last a long the…
She wrote the compile of words on a weathered note card and placed it in her back pocket. As he kissed her his hand grasped the paper.
It was March. She sat in her class and thought of the term paper she was to write. Ideas fluttered in her mind like minuscule gnats. What theme should she choose? What topic could she write about? Her pencil slipped into her mouth and she bit it nervously. “What has this class taught you…” the words echoed in her brain. Her face broke into a grin as she began to write these words, “She…