Tears Dry On Their Own

This time, I tried to flex my neurons a bit in creative writing by composing a love story. HAHA. Yes, you got it, love story. This will be my first entry about the genre. Just.. hmm.. enjoy? haha.


Safrollah A. Khalid

               She was the glamorous, famous “It” girl of New York City with curls and blonds like those of Marilyn Monroe, and alluring body that seduced all soldiers of World War II. It was the height of glamour and prominence and industrialization of New York.

                Behind the tinted windows of the black vintage limousine, silver flashes sparkle around the car in adjunct with the clicking and swishing of the camera. She gazed upon the crowd of enthusiasts ready to jump when she gets out of the black engine. But no, someone caught her attention; her eyes were fixed to a red haired guy with grey beret, striped vest, and a worn out tie. She remembered him – he, of all, the one who left her tears dry on their own.

               It was twenty past ten in the evening; buzzing of running cars, bottles crackling, cats purring in the alley; and in the middle of it all, there she was – pacing down the dark corners of the 250 year old street of Manhattan. Three, four men were following her. She sensed it; shadows were at her tail, stalking her. She can’t contain the adrenaline flush deep inside her, she ran with all her heart, but so did the thugs. They played a cat and mouse chase, and ran with all her breath – breaking the heel of her left stiletto. She dashed, she gulped, she was afraid.

               And at an instant, she smacked to a tall, fiery haired guy coming out from the bar. He eyed her and asked, “What’s a young lady doing in the middle of the night in a dark street like this?” She didn’t answer; instead she looked around, sensed if her stalkers were still following her. But no, there was none. But she knew deep inside, someone, somebody did follow her before she met the red gentleman.

               He walked her to her humble abode. The lady, without hesitation thanked him. She slid her hand to the right pocket of her faux coat reaching for the house key and felt the cold tingle of the silver metal. Before she can pull it out, the gent asked him if they could go out sometime – for the benefit of knowing each other, as acquaintances. But she turned him down. Profoundly enough, she knew, she knew that it was him; the hero she’s been waiting for. But still, she hesitated.

               She woke up early this morning; breathing deeply, sweat trickling down from the golden locks of her baby hair, her cheek flushed with redness. She dreamed of the thugs, and of him – the tall, red haired guy from the pub who saved her and walked her to her home, to safety. She got out of the house covered with thick vest for warmth; it was the end of autumn, chill is in the air. Cold damp breeze brushed her thin-skin cheeks. She walked to the library, planning to read some stuff about arts of cooking for she was exemplary and a chef-in-the-making. On her way, she saw a young man lying dead in the back alleys of a building surrounded by scared and curious New Yorkers. She knew right away that the victim should have been her. She didn’t stop any further, she continued walking down the library.

               Piles of books were in the rightmost corner of the lobby, “Those books might be the new arrivals.” she thought. She paced down the recipes and cookbook section, and immediately got the “Of the Arts of Taste” by A. C. McCormac. She must have known what book she needed most, and it was this; a blank cookbook of words and letters a cordon-bleu only recognizes, without any picture, and type-written. She headed to the reading area when out of the blue, she saw him again – slender, hair fixed and combed to the back. He had black gloves and a leathery-like vest with red cravat hanging down his neck.

               She was uncertain if she would call him. But her decision was broken when the chap saw her, and instantly approached her. “What’s a young lady doing in a library?” The gent was shocked of himself of this out-of-the-sense question. The lady immediately understood that the question was just a justification to start a conversation, no matter how awkward it was. But she didn’t tell him, for it was an instant passport for ‘farewell then milady’ tête-à-tête. Instead, she thrilled him. She gave him a meaningful eye glance and a smile, smile that confirmed she’s happy to be there, to finally meet him and talk to him without fear of being followed again.

               He was a playwright, deprived of family affairs. He lost his mother from a fire when he was still twelve years old and his father was alcoholic, abusing both him and his mother. They left him at once and moved from Trenton, New Jersey to the residential locale of Brooklyn, New York and stayed there until his mother died; unfortunately, he was left all alone, fending for himself. He worked as a newspaper deliverer from house to house and only gets ¢79 a day. But he was a good writer; “opportunity always finds you” he affirmed. A school down the lower Manhattan examined one of his articles. He was real good, remarkably skilled. He got the scholarship and studied for three years until he was accepted for their high school. He became the executive editor of their publication and a minor playwright for the theatre club. He dropped out of school and found his first job in a local theater – Masks and Wisdoms. He gained popularity in the neighborhood and to other less known New Yorker playwrights. But time and experience molded him, an emerging threat to other playwrights – they tried to take him down. Tell stories of infamy about him, but none can surpass his talents, no matter what rumors of inept is gossiped about him. The only thing the people recognizes is what they see and what entertains them, not what the playwrights are.

               She was glad she met him. She knew this is the man – hair as red as that of the leaves shedding during autumn, blue eyes that of winter sky, a smile brighter than the summer sun, and a spring flower budding to its full magnificence ready to endow charms to all ladies it comes across.

               But he knew too, that she was a fragile gold not to be messed around with. A beauty envied by the Goddesses of the old, a star fairer than a candle flame, a ripple in an undisturbed lake, and a pink blossom floating through the air – as delicate as a twig and as gentle as a sea of swaying prairie.

               For awhile, silence greeted them, deafening them. It was as if an understood etiquette not to talk. They spoke for five hours now, exchanging words of adoration. The red haired gent broke the long continuing silence with a sigh. “Maybe I should go?” She nodded in return. Then there, they departed once more.

               She hoped they would meet again. And he hoped, they should have stayed longer. That silence was a sign, he thought. They left the soul of their love to the hands of destiny.

               Flashes blinded her. Her driver was talking to her. She came to her senses, she was too far recollecting what the past was. Reality came banging to her head. “Madam, are you going out now? The guards are in place.” He voiced. She came out, in all her glory, in a golden dress covered by a fox fur. She was the Lady of the Sun. Yellow from head to toe. The flashes made her shine in a New York night – gleaming and center of attraction. She was praised, like a Goddess of the old.

               She gazed to the place where he was standing, but he was nowhere to be seen. She lost her strength to walk down the red carpet. It’s as if all her insides were sucked out. But no, he was standing there – near the car. The aficionados must have covered her sight. But their eyes locked, intimate as it was. The urge of love rushed through their veins, the same feeling they felt few years ago. There, stared eye to eye at each other and with the same meaningful smiles, they knew.. they knew that they wouldn’t let go of each other again.