Dallying and Dalliances

Sandy knew that Paul, her boyfriend, adored her, but never could pin down why. Once (and only once), she made a list of reasons why she thought he might like her. They included genuine reasons ("Paul's cat has a natural propensity to me") to the frivolous ("I like all the vegetables Paul hates"), but in this list she never came close to any of the reasons why Paul liked her. After she wrote the list, she immediately regretted doing so and, when the crumbled paper was midway through its arch to the trash can (she would eventually miss the shot entirely) she realized that if there were only one reason that Paul liked her, it would be a shallow reason that others would easily see. Her friends would tell her, "He's only with you because you're pretty" (Which she was, but Paul was handsome so it was a good match), or "He's only with you because the only other option is to be without you" (Which sounded more philosophical than it actually was). When the crumbled paper bounced off the rim, she let go off the thought completely.

Paul could never articulate his adulation but certainly felt it. Little did Paul know that the reason, the real reason, why he had gravitated to Sandy was because she smelled like the used dryer sheets that his mother put into his sock drawer when he was a child. While some would argue that his room smelled like fresh mountain springs with burgeoning flowers, others, more pragmatic and practical, understood the scent was deliberate and premeditated. It smelled like the brilliance of scientists trapped in unfulfilling jobs. Transitively, she smelled like love letters that would only be thought but never wrote.

On an important night, a night not worth talking about except in passing, Sandy wore a dress stitched with pieces of shimmering fabric that resembled a fish's scales. It didn't take long for the light to gleam off into someone's eye. All that's worth saying about that is Sandy and Paul never spoke again, except (of course) in passing.