Afghanistan

I met my true love the same year the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan.

I met my true love the same year the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan. I was at Nicks reading Aristotle and drinking Heineken when I ran across a brilliant idea. The idea was: the reward for living a good life is happiness. My next thought after wow, that’s cool was that: I might live to be ninety; I might never meet my mate, I might be alone the rest of my life. It’s possible. I could be miserable day in and day out every day forever. How boring. With a Heineken in one hand and Aristotle in the other, I made a vow to the stars in the sky that I would be happy starting tonight, no matter what. Then I looked up from my glass and saw a man who looked like Jean-Paul Belmondo smoking a Marlboro and drinking an Old Style. I looked at him and knew that I had I known him from the beginning of time. I looked at him and saw forests with trees and houses with bedrooms.
He was sitting at the bar between two women. It didn’t matter.
I rose from my barstool and crossed behind him to the bathroom where I looked in the mirror and colored my lips vibrant red. When I reemerged, he didn’t see me. So I left.
The next night, I rode my bike as far as I could.
I wore navy running shorts and a tight grey tee. I was a hundred and eleven pounds and my hair was Titian blonde, and I ran five miles every other day. Except, I cheated because I was always alone.
The stars came out and fell through the sky. I was elated and rode my bike until there was nowhere to go. One block from home, I saw the man from the night before on an antique black bike stopped at the light.
I passed him; and he passed me, and then I passed him again.
We rode circles around each other. It was a bike ballet.
I got off my bike and took it to the basement. He waited for me in the gutter across the street from the play yard where he had just taken a piss. He was so brazen. It was so perfect; I almost laughed out loud.

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