So, as promised — here is a short story. To be transparent, it is not brand new. I started writing this in 2019, but I’ve edited and revised it, using Anton Chekhov‘s six principles for a good short story:

“Absence of lengthy verbiage of political-social-economic nature”“Total objectivity”“Truthful descriptions of persons and objects”“Extreme brevity”“Audacity and originality: flee the stereotype”“Compassion”

Let’s see how I did.

I fell absolutely head over heels in love this weekend, and I almost managed to do it at first sight.

That probably sounds dramatic, but that doesn’t make it any less true. To be fair, I should also mention that I fall in love all the time, like almost every day. To be honest, I fall in love with practically every man I meet. I’ve never really stopped to ponder what such a truth communicates about me as a person, and it’s better you make up your own mind about that, anyway. And with that disclaimer, let me begin again: recently, I fell in love.

I fancy myself a writer, so I attend writing conferences where, as you can probably already guess, I fall fast and hard for some creative but mildly tortured soul. I’ve done it before and I am bound to do it again. And this past weekend in New York City was no exception.

The conference was held in one of New York’s older buildings with a heavy front door, a wobbly railing along a noisy, spiraling staircase, and an anachronistically comfortable air. It rejected the sleek modernity of the metropolis surrounding it, and therefore seemed the perfect fit for a bunch of creative types, who mostly felt like they didn’t quite fit in anywhere.

The room where the day’s seminar was being held was small, and so was my group. We had been learning together since Friday. Smaller isn’t always better, but in the instances of writing workshops, it most certainly is. The fewer the writers, the greater the chance of standing out and having one’s genius satisfactorily noticed, which is the goal, really. Few writers, I think, will readily admit they’re talented but if someone else points it out, far be it from them to argue. A fellow attendee, seemingly in agreement, made the comment that many creative types can be summed up in the following line: “Look at me, but don’t look at me.”

In the small room in the comfortable building with the seemingly timid writers, the carpet was a repulsive shade of green, but it matched the same awful hue smeared over the cushions of the ancient, rickety chairs that circled an ancient, rickety table. Everything in the room seemed old and it might have exhibited a more dignified air if not for the putrid green accent color.

I shuffled in with the others, taking an inconspicuous seat in the middle of the right side of the table, the side closest to the exit. I didn’t want to scoot out early or anything, but I wanted to keep the option open as this section of the conference had assigned homework that I had not done.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m too much of a try-hard to ignore homework completely, so I had completed half of the assignment. I had annotated the ever-loving shit out of a short story and had honestly endeavored to find a deep revelation in every line. The pages were covered in ink, in brilliant discoveries, I hoped. But as soon as everyone was seated, the man leading the session cleared his throat, introduced himself, and announced we’d start by analytically discussing the poetry packet, the very same packet I’d neglected. It fucking figured, and I suddenly hated the man.

I remembered seeing him at the start of the conference two days before, at a semi-swanky reception with wine and passed hors d’oeuvres, and from the start, I’d pegged him as a real blowhard, a pedantic and self-righteous academic who’d be both awful and impossible to talk to. Maybe it was because of the predictable blazer he wore, or maybe it was the easy air of confidence he had as he glamorously maneuvered about the room from table to table, or maybe it was the fact that he never came to the table I hovered around. Whatever the reason, I knew him for what he was as soon as I saw him, so when the prick picked the one thing I hadn’t done to start with, I knew he’d done it on purpose to make me feel stupid and small. I decided his seminar would be boring. There was absolutely nothing to be learned from him and I wasn’t even going to try. Fuck him.

As he spoke, he had the annoying habit of using his hands and his arms to punctuate his points. It was distracting and unprofessional, flailing his limbs about the way he was.

But as the session continued, I softened towards its leader. With nothing in the room to distract me, with nothing to do but listen, his personality actually revealed itself to be muted, like the art had to come first no matter what and he was just a sort of conduit. In fact, the more he spoke, the less sure of himself he seemed and the more relatable he became. Between his dodgy eye contact and very slight stutter, he became less and less of a vindictive villain and more and more of a harmless intellectual.

And what an intellectual he was. Sheer brilliance came tumbling out of his mouth with every syllable. His whole face lit up as he passionately discussed how all writing is really just human discourse no matter the medium, but since poetry was the focus, he explained the essence of poetry is compression because a single image or a concrete noun becomes evocative of an entire scene. That idea, he further explained, makes the language of a poem very important, but does not necessarily negate the old adage that less is more because at some point, the poet must engage the reader. So he asked us: when is writing explicitly performative?

I couldn’t answer. I had no answer. All I could think about was explicitly performing for him. I watched his hands pass through his dark hair, thick and unruly, and it was enchanting. I felt short of breath and while I longed to make eye contact, I was terrified my face would give me away. I became hyper aware of how my mouth was moving, mortified at the thought of it hanging stupidly open, or of him seeing me lick my lips as my imaginative mind whipped itself into an erotic, frantic frenzy when it should have been concerned with lines and with rhythm and with meter and with meaning. I had to force myself back to the present moment and pay attention.

He said something about maybe taking a break because he admitted he talked at length at an extremely elevated level and that we were all likely either bored or tired. I laughed. I wanted him to know that I thought he was funny, that I knew he could be as charming as he could be cerebral.

He looked right at me and told me that he wasn’t being funny. He told me to get out.

There was a split second where I was worried he was serious, but his dark eyes were twinkling and his precious mouth twitched itself into a smile and then we were both laughing. We were sharing a moment. I knew right then and there that it was love. To prove it, mere moments later, I was struck by the sharp pangs of jealousy.

Some wispy woman in light linen raised her hand and began to pontificate about how she had understood the classical allusion hidden in the title of the poem we were currently discussing. Her dark hair had been neatly twirled into a smart-looking bun at the back of her small head, and the bun was the perfect contrast to the elegantly disheveled, bohemian nature of her maxi dress that was a color concerned with being appropriately fashionable for the season. She made me wish I was beautiful. And to add insult to injury, she was smart and articulate. I never had a chance; he was probably composing a poem for her in his head while she talked and while I just sat and stared. 

But my envy and self-pity transformed into something else as I watched her talk. She closed her eyes at random, inexplicable intervals and when they were opened, she studied herself in an ornate, gilded oval mirror hanging behind the brilliant man leading the discussion. Several aspects of this irritated me. She checked her reflection instead of his reaction, and I couldn’t understand her desire to look anywhere else but at his handsome face. Nor could I understand why she would want to talk over him when his voice had a unique musicality to it that perfectly complemented the deep, masculine tonality of it, creating a gorgeous lilting effect. I assumed she was as desperate for his approval and singular attention as I was, and where I had failed, she had achieved both. I felt like a spent gladiator, dropping to my knees in the dusty sand of the arena in dramatic defeat, willing whatever beast set to consume me to make it quick. I didn’t want to feel a thing.

But a miraculous thing happened: he did not let the beautiful, brainy, bohemian woman control the discussion. He didn’t bury her in praise, but challenged her assertion and redirected the focus to the previous point he had been in the middle of making. They hadn’t laughed, hadn’t shared anything. I was back in the game.

I had imagined enchanting and enthralling him later that evening at a more social event. When I spotted him across the dark pub, the beautiful, brainy, and bohemian woman had attached herself to him. The best I could do was pathetically hang around a garbage can so I could casually assault him with conversation should he need to throw anything away. I was desperate, and I knew it. The rest of the conference passed without incident, and my great literary love affair never got off the ground.

But it did get onto this page, and that’s something.

Comment and let me know what you think!

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