Modern Romance

It’s easy to fall for someone you don’t know. You meet once, twice, maybe you see them every day—eye them from a distance or maybe you never meet them at all—a celebrity, a fellow writer. As long as that distance is there, it’s easy to fall completely. You fantasize them into perfection. You imagine the amazing sense of humor that might not exist. The taste in music—he jumps at the opportunity to accompany you to a Yeah Yeah Yeahs concert. Fantastic in bed, of course. Intelligent, naturally. Attentive. He might even be able to educate you. For once, he might not tuck his tail in between his legs when you challenge his intellect. Rather, he’ll step up, tell you something you don’t know. Slap you off your damn pedestal, finally.

As long as you don’t see any of the wrong, everything will be right. Don’t talk to him too often, or else you’ll see the dry sense of humor. He’ll get offended by your crude jokes, your free use of the word “cunt,” the way you raise your voice when you get excited or drunk, not befitting of the demure Asian standard. He’ll nod and pretend he understands what you’re talking about when you tell him you think Jackson Pollock is overrated. 50 Cent will spew from his speakers during long drives. His penis will be small. The novelty of you will wear off and he'll stop calling you the day after.

So you don’t give chase. You slither into a dark corner—a silent voyeur. You avoid phone calls, dodge dates.

Whenever you have a free moment, you fantasize about this fictional cast in your head. You build dream scenarios to the songs that drown out the din of your morning commute. Compose your own dialogue to the point you're talking to yourself on the street. And you fall in love over and over and over without fail.

-L