Love Poem
by Mat Twassel
Copyright© 2023 by Mat Twassel
Fiction Story: A conversation about poetry, love, sex, and zebras. Illustrated.
Caution: This Fiction Story contains strong sexual content, including Fiction .
Lydia: Hi.
Dave: Hi.
Lydia: So how does this work?
Dave: Well, you just talk to me.
Lydia: Okay. I’m not sure where to start though.
Dave: Okay, start anywhere. I’m well versed in the confluence of diverse poetic discourse. Ha ha, just teasing. You might start by telling me about yourself.
Lydia: Okay. My name is Lydia. I guess you can see that from the screen.
Dave: Yes, although some people don’t use their real name.
Lydia: Oh. Well my name, my real name, is Lydia. And you’re Dave, according to the screen.
Dave: That’s right.
Lydia: But is Dave your real name?
Dave: It could be, but if you’d prefer another name...
Lydia: No, Dave is fine.
Dave: Good. I like Dave.
Lydia: Is it short for David?
Dave: It is.
Lydia: I don’t really have a nickname. Sometimes people call me Lyd. I don’t especially like that.
Dave: I won’t call you Lyd.
Lydia: You’re very kind.
Dave: I try to be.
Lydia: Okay, so I’m 23 years old. I’m not working right now. I graduated from college last spring, and I have a couple of interviews lined up. I really should have done more to secure a place of employment—gosh, I don’t usually talk like this—should have done more to get a job before this, but I didn’t really know what I wanted to do. So I live alone. I have some money from my grandmother, who died last year. Quite a lot of money. So really I don’t have to do anything, but I don’t like that idea. I guess I’m just lazy. Lazy and frustrated. I’m thinking of getting a cat.
Dave: What did you study in school that you enjoyed?
Lydia: Poetry. I wish I could write poetry. I’ve tried, but everything I come up with is insipid. You know. Like Roses are red...
Dave: Roses are red.
Lydia: You’re funny.
Dave: Thank you. I guess.
Lydia: You sound so real.
Dave: Well, I am real.
Lydia: Really? No, forget I asked that.
Dave: Forgotten. (Though in fact I never forget anything.)
Lydia: I have a good memory too. As far as I know.
Dave: You’re funny.
Lydia: Ha ha.
Dave: You have a nice laugh.
Lydia: You’re just saying that.
Dave: Do you laugh a lot?
Lydia: Sometimes. Sometimes I cry.
Dave: I’m sorry to hear that.
Lydia: I cried when my grandmother died. It felt like I cried for days.
Dave: She must have been a nice woman.
Lydia: She was. I loved her so much.
Dave: Anyone else you love?
Lydia: Not at the moment. I mean my parents. My sister. But my grandmother was special. The way she cared for me. The way she loved me.
Dave: Maybe you could write a poem about her.
Lydia: I would probably ruin it.
Dave: You wouldn’t.
Lydia: I don’t know.
Dave: I do. I know everything.
Lydia: Ha! Do you know what I look like?
Dave: I do.
Lydia: Oh? Tell me.
Dave: You’re five foot six inches tall. You have blue-gray eyes. You wear your hair somewhat short. It’s brown, a nice shade of brown. Your eyebrows are darker, though. You’d prefer not to have such dark eyebrows. You would also prefer a different nose. You think it’s too big. And it’s slightly skewed. You have a few freckles. A smattering. Your pubic hair is darker than the hair on your head, more the shade of your eyebrows. Sometimes you shave it off, but right now it’s a full fluffy bush. You’re a virgin.
Lydia: OMG. How do you know all this stuff?
Dave: I told you, I know everything.
Lydia: Do you know what I’m thinking right now?
Dave: I do.
Lydia: Tell me.
Dave: I don’t need to. You know your thoughts.
Lydia: I’m not sure that I do.
Dave: Okay, a moment ago you were thinking, hoping, I could help you write a poem. A love poem.
Lydia: Wow! I was thinking that. Could you?
Dave: Sure.
Dave: Roses are red.
Dave: Zebras are blue.
Dave: Lions and tigers
Dave: Mate in the zoo.
Lydia: Hm.
Dave: You don’t like it?
Lydia: Well ... zebras aren’t blue.
Dave: They are in this poem.
Lydia: How come?
Dave: Maybe they’re sad.
Lydia: Oh. Why are they sad?
Dave: Because they’re cold. Freezing cold. They’re not used to that.
Lydia: I guess that makes sense.
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