Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Russell Banks' "Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Banks' short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.
[This text should be explained. It is written from the point of view of Sarah Cole, not Banks' narrator. The writing style is tailored to her personality. If the short story is read in conjunction with this text, it should match up with her character. If not, I apologize for being a terrible writer. We all start somewhere.]
His name was Ron. I had met him in the bar, at Osgood’s. He was definitely a looker: blonde hair, kind of skinny, not so old and not so young, but definitely worth a few minutes of my drunken time. The gals from work suggested (on a dare) that I go up and talk to him. So I did. I did the talking mostly, and he just sat there, looking at me and nodding and smiling, but he still held onto the paper, as if it was waiting for him. I went to the bar again two nights later, and when I had enough drinks and thought it was time to hit the road he walked me out to my car, and we discovered that my car was damaged. God, I thought, this is embarrassing as a cried into his chest, into his strong, kind, intelligent, good looking, button-up shirt chest. I had told him about my ex-husband, and he sympathized. He once drove me to his place, and while I sat in the living room waiting for him to come in from the kitchen, I got scared, and I walked out the front door after he offered me a white Russian. One time, he was so nice that he carried my groceries up my stairs to my apartment, and when we got inside, he didn’t say a word about how much of a mess the place was. He was polite, appropriate. I kissed those kind and thoughtful lips, and then he left. I was hooked, hooked on a man whose age I didn’t even know. I was hooked because I really needed a kind man in my life. I became obsessed with his kindness. We made love at his place every time, and every time I grew more attached. Until, finally, he seemed to grow cold and distant. Eventually he broke it off with me. I think the word “broke” is appropriate. He didn’t just end it. He broke it, my heart. He broke my heart. I didn’t see him for some time, and then, when I finally grew enough courage to drive up to his place and get out of the car and walk up to the door and knock…he let me in. I sat down. I still wanted to see him, although I was living with my ex-husband. He didn’t want to see me anymore, though. I grew angry. What a bastard; what a son-of-a-bitch. What a fucking low-life, good-for-nothing piece of shit. And then he said it. He called me an ugly bitch because he could. Then I disappeared because I wanted to.
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