Full Circle

The story starts with a boy and a girl. Two complete opposites with a mutual attraction. A perfect fit to the common cliché. This is the truth to an extreme, because the two are common down to their khakis, their perfect boring lives and their petty dramas.

None of which has entered the picture yet.

Where we're at is still the beginning, with the boy and the girl and the mutual attraction. The boy says hi, all shuffling feet and lowered head. As if he's shy. As if he hasn't practiced this a thousand times before with a thousand other girls. The boy is too smart for come-ons. Because he knows that this girl is not the type of girl who goes for that shit, she wants intellect and feigned detachment and all that. For now, he's willing to play along.

The girl replies hello without a smile. She has to fake detachment, keep her distance so as not to give in too easily. She wants to look like she doesn't give a shit about his smile or his eyes or the ridiculously skinny frame that she finds all too endearing. That would imply that she is, even in the slightest sense superficial. And that is an impossibility, because she's spent her entire life appearing the opposite. Apathetic to anything but the intellect and the detached romance. The girl is too smart to act the way she really feels. Because this boy is not the type of boy who goes for that shit. He wants to be adored without being adored; he wants Marxism as conversation and all that. She's okay with it for now.

They talk into the night over coffee, rampant inane conversation that is ultimately useless in the end, but it doesn't matter because this is the beginning. And it's nice and it's new and it's surreal and it's beautiful. It's a beautiful little lie, and at the center are two beautiful fucking liars.

When they finally leave, the sun is gone and in its place is night, the stars nothing but dust splashed onto a carpet of black. The streets are quiet, and once the two have finally shut up, they have time to revel in the comfort the other brings. They make plans, share a moment, and then the boy is gone. The girl is left, stupidly happy in her house.

They are opposites but there's enough common ground and enough false pretenses to make it fit. To fit the cliché. It's all bliss and roses and idiocy blanketed by the coffeehouse Marxism.

A perfect bed of roses. And they sleep in it for months upon months. The months turn into years and suddenly the boy and the girl are bored. Bored with themselves, bored with each other. Pissed off with the knowledge that they are both boring, common people.

Because the girl has fought her entire life to present herself as something other than stereotypical. The boy has done the same.

Where we're at now is the conflict. The two are the stereotypes they fight against. Lies are the glue of the relationship; whatever one idiot thought was unique and amazing about the other. The newness and comfort and conversation passed from one moron to the next.

Unfortunately they've gone full circle, face first into the truth. And realized how fucking ugly the other is.

They fight constantly about nothing. Everything. Mostly nothing. They have to create shit to make themselves feel special, feel original. Because all they are is carbon copies of the same recycled waste.

The story stars with a boy and a girl, two beautiful liars fighting the stereotypes they subconsciously know they are.

The story ends with a boy and a girl, two beautiful liars fighting the stereotypes in a pathetic battle they will never win.