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Farewell was All it Took

Chad Grant

    Her words were a poison consumed in small quantities, a mithridatization to immunize his wanting for her. Though only friends, he kept a cock sure attitude that those desires would be met, and that one day her attacks of defamation would cease.
    Despite her unwillingness to abound him with the satisfaction of her bodily pleasures, she instinctively knew of his desire to sleep with her, and took full advantage of her stunning good looks knowing that he would not dare to approach her.
    He handled such frustrating situations just as any other neurotic young virgin of 26 would, by complementing her beauty at home confined to his room with an old copy of Playboy magazine and a bottle of lotion.
    Why he put up with her, God only knows. When it came to a debate on such topics as literature or art her rebuttals were often fashioned in an ad hominem manner, “What makes you so smart on Rimbaud; you don’t even know how to read French.” She was quoted as saying once, this, a contrast to her sumptuous background and her splendid appearance.
    She was a very elegant yet petite 5'8, with the most gorgeous smile, cropped brown hair, which would often cover one eye. Her eyes were a pallet of green, the shade of Absinthe, the shade he drank and dreamt about. She rarely ever wore makeup; she was of natural beauty as well as attraction.
    Men fawned after her and would flock by the dozens to talk to her. In the course of their knowing she had many flames, but all of them fizzled, none of which lasted any more than a month.
    The two had met one autumn while freshman in college, still young, adjusting to the regiment of being away from home. They were taking an art history class together when the professor brought up Van Gogh. Afterward that was when he approached her, “How are you enjoying the class?” He asked.
    “I cannot stand this professor, his lectures are so blasé and unmoving.” Later he would often quip to himself about cutting off his ear and delivering it to her as a declaration of his heart.
    There are moments when there is nothing more to say but farewell, that was eight years ago and she has since moved to Provence in the south of France. Farewell was all it took to immunize him from a virulent friendship which lasted for seven and a half years. He often dreamt of her dining at a café terrace at night, but this was all fantasy. He had always lacked the poise to say anything, to be the one to cut the ties and throw in the towel. Were his motives selfish? Perhaps, but one may say, “The way to know life is to love many things.” But ah, C’est la vie (such is life).

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