“She’s beautiful,” he tells his always sensible doctor-brother.
“I think she may be the one.”
“Yeah, but probably not the one for you.”
Autumn leaves. Fuzzy street lamps. Her hand doesn’t grip as tight.
“I’m just not sure where we’re going anymore... but I always want us to stay friends."
He tugs his trench coat closer to block the chill.
“No thanks,” he whispers.
“None of my friends have ruined my life before.”
Soft jazz. Dim lamp. Moist eyes. Empty bottle.
He collapses on the floor, sobbing.
“Mom, I don’t need someone to tell me what to do!” he screamed at seventeen.
“Help me, help me, help me,” he begs at twenty five.
Clenched fists. Thrown magazines. Broken vase.
“She isn’t coming back,” his brother says.
“But she was everything to me. She was the one.”
Excited. Slightly buzzed. Feeling rather chatty.
He calls his brother late one night.
“I met this gorgeous girl tonight. I think she may be the one.”