This is a totally random piece I started a few months back and just recently finished.

*****

“Alright, Jen, so tell me about him.” Soul mate. Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. The most predictable teenage rant in the history of teenage rants. His eyes are ocean-blue, deeper than tempest-tossed waves flecked with foam; and oh my gaaaawd, girlfriend, you should see those killer abs…

“What? Sorry, I spaced out for a minute…What’s he look like?” Oh yeah – tall, dark and handsome. The tried-and-true recipe for love. Hey, if it worked for Juliet, why not me? Human beings are so cliché.

“Uh-huh. Where’d you guys meet again? That little café, right?” I’d like a little romance, served hot and spicy. Don’t worry, I’ll wolf it down and be out of your life in no time.

“Yeah, well, it sounds pretty serious…” ‘Cause when a guy wants to get to know your breasts before he gets to know your personality, it’s definitely serious.

“Uh…well, no, I never really have…” Let’s see, when was the last time I felt a deep emotional attachment to a perfect stranger? At birth, maybe?

“What was that? Oh, sorry, I can’t; I’m meeting someone.” Short, blond, and baby-faced, if you must know. Like a golden retriever puppy. Romeo isn’t really my type.

“Nah, it’s not like that. Just dinner and a movie.” Harry Potter, to be more specific. We’ll probably sit in the empty theater and comment on the special effects until curfew. How’s that for a soul mate?

“I don’t know. He’s just not interested, I guess.” ‘Cause nobody ever is. You don't pet a lioness if you want to keep your hand.

“Yeah, I guess he’s cute. Blond, kind of messy hair, skinny, brown eyes…” Smart. Funny. Gentle. But I won’t bore you with the tedious details. You’ve already written him off your “to do” list.

“Yeah, sure. Have fun.” Don’t get pregnant. You’re a pain in my butt, but I love you.

“Talk to you later, Jen.”

*

“Hey, Owen, what’s going on?” The allergies are back. I can hear you sniffling. And you’re probably wearing your glasses because the contacts irritate your itchy eyes. When is your mom going to get rid of that stupid cat so you can breathe again?

“Yeah, I’m ready when you are. Got the gummy worms?” Of course you do. We cannot have a Nerd’s Night Out without gummy worms. The universe would not stand for it.

“I’m sorry, what did you say? Reservations – where at? The Olive Garden? But…” What happened to a milkshake at the diner? And you hate Italian food…You told me that garlic tastes like dog piss…

“Well…um…wow, that’s really, really nice of you…” How did you know that I love Fettuccini Alfredo? I never told you, did I? Cripes, am I really that transparent these days?

“You asked my mom? That poor woman – she probably had an aneurysm.” Why would you ask my mom if we could have dinner? Dinner’s been our thing since sixth grade. Dinner at your house, then at my house, then at Kyle’s house for his Halo party, then –

“Sorry, what did you say? You…you bought what?” You idiot – you’re allergic to flowers. Between Miss Whiskers and your dad’s garden, you’ll probably die of dry eyes before you’re twenty.

“Oh. Sunflowers. Well, that’s nice, I guess.” As long as I don’t have to give you an antihistamine shot in the theater.

“They’re for…Owen, why would you buy me sunflowers?” And how did you know…Oh, crap.

“Owen…Owen, stop. No, I’m sorry. I can’t. I really like you, but…” But I don’t believe you.

“No, it’s just that…What about that one chick, Felicia? She likes you, doesn’t she?” She also likes other girls, but you already know that. You know everything. You probably know how much I hate declarations of love, and that’s why you’re doing this to me. Is that it? Is this a joke?

“No, of course not. You’re my best friend, and…I…I love you too, but…” You will not make me cry. You will not make me cry…

“No, of course not. There’s no one else, okay? There’s never been anyone else.” You can’t make me cry, you sneaky, conniving son of a gun. I will turn you down with all my cool, feminine sophistication, and then we will share our gummy worms as if nothing happened…

“Owen, I can’t, okay? I don’t want a boyfriend!” I just want you. Us.

“Because. Because I can’t take it. I can’t…” I can’t live in a soap opera. I can’t take the lying, cheating, worrying, wishing, crying. I can’t live like Jen, completely at the mercy of male testosterone.

“No. No, I’m not crying.” Darn you, Owen Banks. Darn you and your sweet, sensitive, ridiculously persistent soul.

“No. Don’t worry about it; you don’t have to come over…” But I want you to come over. I really, really want you to come over.

“Well…okay. I guess. If you feel like it.” Darn my stupid hormones. Darn them to the deepest pits of heck.

“Yeah. I’ll see you in ten.” And I’ll be sitting next to the window when you pull up, and I’ll run to the couch and pretend I was reading the whole time. But you always know.

“Hey, Owen? Would it be okay...if you brought those flowers?”