Stretch Love

Last week, I introduced Snap Love, which is tweet-length romance. This week, I present Stretch Love. The idea is to start with a Snap Love story, then double the length repeatedly, retelling the story at each new length. This entry is 140 characters, 50 words, 100 words, 200 words, and 400 words.140 characters (23 words)Twice divorced in eight years and there has still been nothing like the heat in your car those high school nights. You, too? #snaplove50 wordsI married first because I was so angry at you. The second time to try to do things differently from the first time. I’m twice divorced in eight years and there has still been nothing like the heat in your car those high school nights. You remember. I can see.100 wordsYou took me to the least and most romantic place, that diner where fifteen years earlier we’d sat and eaten French fries and chocolate malteds. You were very slightly balding, which I felt you deserved. You leaned across the table and said, “I married first because I was so angry at you. The second time to try to do things differently from the first time. I’m twice divorced in eight years and there has still been nothing like the heat in your car those high school nights.” I tried to keep my face studiously blank. You said, “You do remember.”200 wordsI was opposed to the whole idea of going out with you, but you said it would be harmless. There's nothing harmless about sitting face-to-face with someone you once loved. Whether you still love them, or have found a way to forget the unforgettable, it's too much in too small a space. “Please,” you said, and the plea in your voice insinuated itself into the vulnerable places in my mind and body. I agreed, feeling that I was journeying somewhere distant and exotic without the aid of the proper vaccinations.You took me to the least and most romantic place, that diner where fifteen years earlier we’d sat and eaten French fries and chocolate malteds and made each other crazy with our fingertips under the table. You were slightly balding, which I felt you deserved. You leaned across the table and said, “I married first because I was so angry at you. The second time to try to do things differently from the first time. I’m twice divorced in eight years and there has still been nothing like the heat in your car those high school nights.” I tried to keep my face studiously blank. You said, “You do remember.”400 wordsI opposed the whole idea of going out with you, but you said it would be harmless. I thought: There's nothing harmless about sitting face-to-face with someone you once loved. Whether you still love them, or have found a way to forget the unforgettable, it's too much in too small a space. But I didn’t say it aloud. I just said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”“Please,” you said, and the plea in your voice insinuated itself into my vulnerable places. I agreed, feeling that I was journeying somewhere distant and exotic without the aid of the proper vaccinations.You asked me to meet you at the least and most romantic place, that diner where fifteen years earlier we’d sat and eaten French fries and chocolate malteds and made each other crazy with our fingertips under the table. You were slightly balding, which I felt you deserved. You leaned across the table and said, “I married first because I was so angry at you. The second time to try to do things differently from the first time. I’m twice divorced in eight years and there has still been nothing like the heat in your car those high school nights.” I tried to keep my face studiously blank. You said, “You do remember.”“Sure I remember,” I said. I wouldn't meet your eyes. I was sure if I did, you'd see the lie behind the truth.“No,” you said, “that's not what I mean, and you know it.” You reached across the table, and tried to take my hand, but I pulled it away. My heart was pounding so hard that you blurred around the edges. You'd blurred a little anyway, over the years. Fifteen years ago, you'd were sleek and hard-edged. Now you'd put on weight, which looked good on you, and your hair was a tiny bit gone to seed. I wanted to run my fingers through it.“I still love you,” you saidI felt like you’d dropped and shattered me. “You can’t,” I said. “I’m a different person now. You loved the person I was.” I tried to keep the quaver out of my voice.“I haven’t changed that much,” you said. You reached for my hand again, and this time I let you take it. And the part of me that was still that same person remembered, exactly the way you meant me to.