Tremor

The second instalment from a series of short form fiction; inspiration taken from collage by pedrov_dog

By then, two years into college, I’d not had much interest in boys. Experience demonstrated my male peers to be… let’s say, inadequate and really quite easy to dislike. What’s wrong with them? A fair question; how much time do you have exactly?

Actually, I’ll assume you don’t have much attentive time on your hands and proceed with economy in mind, throwing around but a few points of reference. Take these examples, such as the low capacity for sensitivity as an outward expression, a sophomoric level of humour, physical movement devoid of grace and that highly irritating, stubborn, inborn sense of self-entitlement.

Oh yes, and ‘The Obsessions’, so designed as female repellent – don’t you think? The cars, the money, the competitive need for reflective glory appropriated from a successful sports team. The Friday night drinking session, predictably ending in a stupor or complete loss of consciousness. And that unceasing, squeezing out of all remaining enjoyment derived from hobbies that include an element of collecting and acquisition. This, in exchange for a fleeting sense of satisfaction. What is wrong with them?

Of course there’s the sex too. Their goal-focused, blind desire for wanting as much as possible, with as many women as possible (or men, if they are that way inclined). If lucky enough to find themselves in a relationship, there’s the romance-killing aspiration for an unreasonable level of frequency – at least for those first six weeks. All, with such little concern for sensual ecstasy of a truly meaningful kind. That’s the shallowness of boys. That’s the male species neatly sewn up, at least for me and from what I can make out.

Then one day, a balmy late summer’s day, completely out of the nowhere, Lindsey came along.

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