‘I just can’t get the ending right…’, I thought. I’d spent the last 6 months cooped up in my basement writing, it could wait a few more hours. Frustrated, I headed out to the neighborhood coffee shop with my ream of papers (white legal pads with yellow post it’s all over). I was half way through a latte and eying the cookies from my perch on a bar stool at the store window when my glance met hers. I began telling her about the short romantic tragedy without a conclusion which was pretty much all that occupied my life these days. She did not mind and I did not stop :-). We hit it off immediately.
I met her again a few days later and again the night after that. Before I knew it we were dating regularly. I got a job in a weekly news-paper and it was around 6 months later that I got home from work and she handed me a white legal pad with a bunch of post it’s on it.
‘I finished it’, she said. ‘Give it a read’. And it was perfect. An apt ending to the story I began a year ago. The last paragraph read
She had left me. I no longer had a job. And the light creeping through the half closed shop shutter seemed to be my prison. I got up from my perch by the door and headed home. Down in my cozy basement for most of the night I reminisced over the good times and the better. Somewhere down there in a fit of rage, dejection, hysteria, hatred and grief I put pen to paper to write my romantic tragedy.