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Some Sort of Melancholy

I asked her, “Are you ready?”

She gave me a weird look and replied, “Huh? For what?”

I wasted no time getting to my point: “For love.”

“Are you smoking crack again? You need to lay off that shit.”

“Hah! No. Seriously. I mean it.” And then I tried to look deep into her eyes. You know, like in the movies with those totally cheesy Pretty in Pink-style scenes.

“I think you’ve been listening too much to that Cecilia Cheung album. You’re all over that shit, you know? You’re crazy.”

I wasn’t about to lie—or go away for that matter: “You’re right. But that has nothing to do with you. What I’m feeling, that’s what has all to do with you.”

“No, seriously, you’re crazy.”

“About you.”

She shook her head a few times, gave me a kiss on the cheek, paid the bill and hurried out the door. And there I sat, my heart in hand, wondering what it takes to make someone understand. It feels like it should be just so easy, but it never is. So another hour passes, another day awaits. And the world spends its wee hours thinking of modern concoctions that’ll solve my problems from here to eternity, ready to appear on a bookshelf near you.