From a world forgotten

He’s perfect. And I’m his inamorata.

And just like that college was over. We’d stepped into the real world. The world of corporate culture and the rat race. Our first job, the ninth semester.
We met. I detested him. He thought I was a Bitch.
I cherish art. He loves it too.
I love music and dance even more. He does too.
We’re the arty types. CKP is our idea of a perfect date.
We’re book worms and party animals all at once.
We don’t drink anymore. We don’t drink any less.
We love our computers.
We had to meet. Sparks had to fly. It had to begin. But ofcourse. It was, so to say, destined. We had to discover each other.

And so we did.

I’m chirpy, rash and crude. He’s sagacious.
I don’t know a whit about 3D-art. He’s a maestro.
My do-re-mes’ complement a broken harp. He can play three instruments… quite well.
I, small and lithe. He’s tall, brawny and bespectacled.
He loves the Back Street Boys. I’m a metal-head.
He’s the diplomat. I’m the virago incognito.
I love speed, adventure sports. He’s prudent.

He asked me if I would like to be more than friends.
We dated. We became caffine addicts. We visited CKP. We made new friends. We went book hunting in back alleys and second hand shops. We tanned. We danced our nights away at discotheques. We argued and debated. We got drunk on Peach Schnapps and Vanilla Vodka and Terry Gilliam. We changed jobs. We bought curios and Mugs. We had some exotic vegetarian food at Little Italy, one that we can idenify only by a number now – b19. We hated it. We had chicken at Imperial and gorged at Indie Joe. We became gourmets. We jived to Manhatten Brothers and The Elite Swingers at Opus. We made our decision and then he left.

I wear his ring now. I’m his gal forever. He asked me to wait for him. Mais si! I’m his gal forever.
He’s perfect. And I’m his inamorata.

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