A very brief, prurient encounter and the little I know about men

       Strangeness springs among the souls who have gone mad from illness, of affairs both of the heart and gut.    
        This is the final week of summer.  
         Now rains have come, and rains have gone, and summer seems to have claimed upon the earth and its drenched men again.  
      A certain change has filled up the uncertain emptiness, or returned to the old feelings apparently long gone: a change for the better, the elders would say -- but who really knows what's even good?  
        Someone looks up the book of words and discovers this relationship disparity between a pair -- a lover can be a friend, but the latter can't necessarily stand for the former. Some book, indeed. It is definitely not the dictionary, and so she read further.  
        She feels that they are on the same page. It's been awhile since she felt like this. She raises her hands up against the bright, blinding incandescent light to count her fingers. She reckons one hand is enough for her counting. Nevertheless, she thinks that he, the present object of her subtle affection, was, or would be, in a significant non-physics-sort of movement:  
 a) moving closer?  
 b) feeling weightless?  
 c) orbiting toward a center?  
 d) falling a freefall?  
He would read this, and then hand a gift of words to her to commemorate their end of friendship.  
          Excerpt from the preface of a book that must have been either poetry or biology: "It's amazing how testicles and fallopian tubes are so alike and different at the same time. Both are in pairs. Both secrete the gametes. Both have reference to what are called 'eggs.' But the former is outside, exposed to the harsh world, while the latter is sheltered deep inside, lonely and longing. And that is why nature compels them to always meet halfway."  
       She (from outside, looking in) cannot remember if there was any other male character in the last film she saw. But in real life, she (from inside, looking out) realizes that there is another man.  
And the plot suddenly thickens, as Quentin Tarantino scripts always say.  
There is no end to this story.
Written by heyycyanides (Megumi Joa)
Published | Edited 5th Sep 2019
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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