A woman sits alone at a mahogany kitchen table. Her eyes droop, bloodshot and sodden as her bare elbows rest upon the cold surface of the wood. Momentarily, she glances over and reads the time on her stove. Twenty minutes are left until her chicken pot pies are ready. She faces the audience, her back erect and straight, and begins to speak.
I would like to believe in happily ever after. I want to trust that there is someone out there waiting for me. You know, the perfect man. Though in reality, let us be honest; the notion of a perfect life and ending is few and far between. Oh, I thought Luke was the one. He was my prince charming, my knight in shining armor. With his jade eyes, jet-black and wavy hair, and sun-kissed skin he was what I always dreamed of. So cliché, yes I know, but love is blind and true in the eye of the beholder. A year we dated, and then he was mine until death do us part. It was a year of utter, sentimental bliss, and of romance and longing. A year of when times were fruitful and immortal.
Just barely out of college, we traveled the globe. From Paris, London, Tokyo, and Rome, we saw it all. I was a History major with a minor in English. He graduated with a Travel and Tourism degree, Business Administration as his minor. Were we not a match made in heaven? Two peas in a pod? We tasted the world and ate it up. It was ours for the taking. Arms wrapped around one another and fingers intertwined, we lived for the moment.