Aubrey McFate

Once upon a time, I had a relationship with a person. Said relationship fell apart for a number of reasons (chief among them that we were both dating other people at the time) and, more than a year later, I felt the urge to write about it.

I'm still not sure what drove that urge, if it was because I still loved him, because I loved Nabakov so much (the piece turned out so similar in structure to Lolita that it may have crossed the line from homage to plagiarism) or just because I wanted something big and epic to write about. At any rate, as so often happens, my attention waned.

But here is the best part out of what did get written. Names have been changed.

The Road Untaken

Once upon a winter’s evening, I went out with a friend--a girl with whose green eyes I was already half in love--to watch a movie. Everyone involved in this story is in college, so a dorm was my destination. However, it was a special dorm—an old private residence, with drool-worthy wooden floors and original woodwork. Eric came down to let us in, and lead the way to his room.

Eric's room was painted dark grey, a color that made the grain of the window frames and fireplace jump out. It had originally been intended for two people, but the previous co-occupant had graduated just before winter break, and since it was now after, Eric was the sole occupant.

Eric had just broken up with his girlfriend a month ago.

Did I mention that my first glimpse of him over a year before consisted entirely of his shoulders, which were strong and muscular, and even then I thought "hmmm?"

That his jaw line was square and defined and inviting to fantasized kisses?

That everything about him betokened physical, emotional, and mental strength? (how wrong that impression turned out to be...)

That I kept hearing things about him, how he was involved and intelligent and witty, and the instant we locked eyes I knew it all was true?

He sat in his chair and fiddled with his A/V, trying to get a movie from the computer to play on his TV screen. Successful, he turned around and smiled at us, and right then, at probably 10 o’clock on a weekday night in January, I fell in love for the last time in my life.

Right then in his smile, I could see everything I didn’t know yet.

I saw that yes, he would love me too. That my family and friends would adore him, that he would have a successful career and be supportive of mine, and that we would have a fantastic house in Virginia, probably, and he would teach our four sons to play football in the back yard while I read in the living room, and come in after they went to bed, still smelling of grass and sweat, and lean on the ottoman where I’d put all my papers, and kiss me, and we would go to bed and make love and be so, so happy.

And it is my biggest regret, even today at the end of my days, that I did not then and there ask him to marry me.