happy gettysburg address day

The first time they met she knew three things immediately: he hated playing cards, he loved to be the center of attention at parties full of blurry new faces, and she would never kiss a boy with an eyebrow ring.  Then, she forgot about him completely.  Six-pack bandages on newly wounded hearts can do that to a girl.
Days later she would swallow her words along with her pride as she called a boy first for the first time ever, leaving a nervous little voicemail in a frozen yogurt shop when she realized she had to learn more about a kid who had seen more European than American cities, who lived on a Christmas tree farm and killed his pet sheep, whose anxiety at parties surfaced in the form of whiskey on the rocks, who played poker every week with stunningly good luck, and who prompted a succinct four a.m. report to a concerned friend of the implied prowess of "eyebrow ring ;)"
As she was prone to nervous chatter and had lost a valuable censor in her conversation due to the recent realization that hearts could only be broken and that trying to believe otherwise was an option only for Disneyheaded young princesses, he learned more about her than any other date would tolerate from a girl who did not show up to dinner in a short skirt and who abandoned him on a cold November doorstep for the third time in several weeks.  Luckily for both, his favorite I.P.A. allowed her words to settle into the parts of his brain that would hug and treasure them and allow both he and she to finally feel normal, at least around one other person.  She could draw again and talk about her favorite sci-fi novels and he could dance around on a sidewalk on a Thursday and sing in front of her.
Winter brought the coziness of wool-on-wool coat hugs at subway stations across the city, he showing she the fire that lit up his blue eyes at punk rock shows, she showing he the joy that still lives in the hearts of some adults when they learn that seals sleep upside down and that ice cream isn't too cold if there is another hand in their own.  They loved sad songs only, and she waited all day to just lie in his bed and listen to records, feeling like a featherhaired schoolgirl from the seventies.  She grew from like to love faster than she wanted, and realized it the day she began to understand that her goal was no longer to just live her life to its utter happiest, but to make sure that her happiness put its arm around his.

never had a chance

They were not the great loves of each others' lives.
Both had loved too hard already; both had been hurt too bad, seen too much disappointment, and had too much love still to give--just, right now, their hearts weren't strong enough to take such a drastic action yet.
It would last about a year, give or take, then either end in cordial agreement or dissolve of its own volition.  Either way, there would be no explosive break-up, no betrayal, no pining for months, no heartachy, sleepless nights. There would be sadness at the loss of each other's company, for it wasn't a false relationship.  Both wanted, missed, and cared with genuine affection.  Both admired each other, because they were both admirable people.
In fact, both knew how to love so well that they infused this relationship with a temporary commitment, a fierce like for each other, a camaraderie in their non-love.  When they met, he didn't want to date anyone.  She was already dating someone.  Somehow, in their not-dating of each other, they found themselves part of a couple.  They needed each other for exactly what they were.
They were attractive, smart, sharp, fun, driven people.  They were catches who had been playing catch and release for so long that they decided to just pause the game for a bit.  Each toyed with emotions for a living, and had read too many books, listened to too many sentimental songs, seen too many movies, to turn down an opportunity to try it on their own.  The goal was to add another chapter to their individual stories; neither were ready to write their fairy tale ending just yet.
Everyone tells them they'll know it when they see it.  They don't know if this is true, but they find it painfully easy to recognize when it is not around.
This doesn't mean they're bad for each other, or wasting time, or hurting themselves.  They are happy, and they are learning, and they will become one another's stories.  And to these young sentimentalists, stories are the only constant they have ever needed to know.

Funny how I wrote this about a year ago, three months into the relationship, and it came nearly true--except that the end came much faster (seven months) than anticipated.  Luckily, this chapter has closed, though with a bit more ink smeared than necessary.