L.E.’s Bio:

L.E. Grabowski-Cotton is a freelance writer and a professional writing coach. She holds an M.F.A. in Playwriting and Screenwriting from Florida State University’s College of Motion Picture, Television, and Recording Arts, an M.A. in English Literature, and a B.A. in Communication from George Mason University. Each of L.E. Grabowski-Cotton’s screenplays and plays won multiple awards. Her monologues and plays have been published in Young Women’s Monologues from Contemporary Plays and The Best Ten Minute Plays series. Her columns and reviews have appeared in Memphis Health and Fitness, Memphis Parent Magazine and NorthEastBookReviews. Her short story, The Mourning Dove, won first prize in Literal Latte’s K. Margaret Grossman Fiction Awards and is online at http://www.literal-latte.com/2012/01/the-mourning-dove/. She currently teaches Creative Writing and Literature classes at several private academies and mentors writers online via her website, LauraWriter.Com. Her current projects include a Christmas play, a young adult, and multiple stories.

Autumn Spring Together

By L.E. Grabowski-Cotton

 

It had been spring but it felt like autumn. He met her at a party that wasn’t a party, it was more like a get-together with music. He did not like social functions; except for the few times he did like them, which were rare. He did not plan to attend. He did not want to attend. He did not have time to attend. Naturally, he decided that he should attend.

The get-together was held in the old university library, which wasn’t that old, as it had been constructed only ten years ago, nor was it a library, as it no longer contained books. It was a building in a state of constant reconstruction and no one knew what it was going to be. Thus, everyone called it what it once was.

She was the only person not engaged in the blur of drinking, eating, and talking that such an occasion entails; this made her both invisible and remarkably visible. In the corner next to a bookshelf, she sat cross-legged on the floor reading a book on Faust or Proust. He can’t remember which anymore, but the point was that she appeared to be engaged in a higher level of intellectual activity than everyone else around her. He approached her because he was intrigued, not by the fact that she was reading, but by the fact that she wanted to appear as though she were. His opening line was a lie; he said he had been reading that exact same book earlier that day. Of course, he corrected himself, it wasn’t that exact same book; it was another copy of it. She smiled in a way that let him know that she knew it was a lie and that she didn’t care. He smiled back in a way that let her know that he knew she knew it was a lie and he was relieved she didn’t care. Their smiles sparked an exchange in which they talked non-stop about nothing while saying everything. For the first time in his life, he understood what people meant when they said they were in love. At the same time, he wasn’t convinced that anyone else had ever been in love.

They met for lunch everyday at a picnic table on campus except when they couldn’t meet for lunch, and on those days they met for dinner. Dinner was his preference, as he thought dinner was an evocative meal, intimating certain physical expectations, but she preferred lunch, for she thought the exact same thing.

He wanted to know everything about her. But the more he learned, the more he realized he didn’t know. His lack of knowledge was not based on his ineptitude at interviewing, but on the fact that her responses were consistently inconsistent. Some days she said she would say she was a painter, the next a sculptor, the next a photographer. She was some type of artist, of this he was certain, but he wasn’t convinced that she was certain.

In an effort to win her heart, he would bring her chocolates and roses and cream pies. She would laugh at him, saying that such gifts were too romantic and this dismayed him—he knew that what she meant was that they were not romantic enough.

When she stopped showing up at the picnic table, he invented excuses for her. Of course, he was creating the excuses for himself. She was painting. She was drawing. She was sculpting. In his mind, she created a million pieces of art and the most recent was always more spectacular than the last.

When he saw her again, it was by accident, if there are such things as accidents. He saw her at a party, that wasn’t a party, it was more like a get-together with music. She was the only person not engaged in the blur of drinking, talking, and eating that such an occasion entails. In the corner next to a bookshelf, she sat cross-legged on the floor reading a book on Faust or Proust; he can’t remember which one anymore, but the point was that she appeared to be engaged in a higher level of intellectual activity than everyone else around her. He wanted to approach her, but at the same time, he didn’t want to approach her. She looked up and smiled like she knew him and he smiled back in the same manner, both acknowledging that they had never known one another and that now they never would.

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