Summer Love

by Robert Lopresti

I have to confess it.  I'm not ashamed.  And don't worry about my wife finding out; she is already well aware.

I seem to be in love.  Head over heels in that deep, crazy, stage of infatuation in which you want to spend all your time with your beloved, in which characteristics even you can see are imperfections still seem so charming you don't know why everyone doesn't feel the same awed delight as you.

As you may have guessed, the objection of my affection is a novel.  Or rather, it may be a novel when it grows up.  Right now it is about 12,000 words of narrative, getting a little longer every day.  I'm writing as fast as I can, not worrying about editing, re-reading, or pieces that don't fit together, because I want to get as much done as possible in this first rush of heady joy.

Maybe in a month or two I'll be sitting in a bar wondering what I ever saw with this evil soul-destroying monster who sucked up my summer.  Or maybe this will be a long-term relationship. No way to know. yet.  But I have gone in with my starry eyes open and we will whether we end up signing our names at the publisher's office, or I wind up once again with a fat reject file and a broken heart.

Win or lose, I know we need to spend some time alone.  So if you'll excuse me....