It seems as if time stood still, as if they held hands forever, those two corpses.
Love is a fickle mistress, like having a secret wife.
“She and I, we were ready for second base. They said our relationship was impossible, eccentric, yearning to break free the very fabric of what is moral and immoral; and, as we felt our bodies become one, we knew they were so so wrong especially after we started using the second base canvas bag as a spanking machine,” Jeff read aloud to his drivers’ ed class.
As the haughty and cynical 60-year old fashion editor stared through her limousine window at what even she could not doubt was true love, her heart melted, killing her instantly.
Stalking is just love from a distance.
Jeff opened the fortune cookie. It read, “If you love it so much, why don’t you let it go?”
“You drive me crazy, Jeff,” she whispered into his ear. “How did you know,” he whispered back, “that I flushed your psychiatric medication?”
Jeff didn’t want to be a stalker. Jeff didn’t want to stand in the rain on a Sunday night with his hands in a laundry basket, smiling, always smiling.
They were walking by the lake and holding hands when they realized they loved each other tenderly. It took, however, the drownings to realize they should walk more carefully by lakes.
Jeff suddenly knelt down on one knee and took out a ring from his pocket. He took her hand. “María,” he began, “this really hurts.” “I know,” she whispered.
