• This. is. ********. terrible.

    Frances thought, as she listened to the overpressed words coming from the 5th rate actors.
    "Your love is like thy peach, precious, divide, and it makes me tingle on the very inside of the core! Feel deeply! Scream for thy elastic joy that speads inside of me like a wildflower and causes me to want to do stuff, that thy parents would never stand for. Stuff that would cause me to be whipped punctionously on the behind..."

    Frances buried her face in her hands.

    Everything was so wrong. The date had started off on a wrong foot--Allen had tripped on a rock and cut a deep gash into his leg. Frances attempted to wipe off the wonds wearing a concerned look on her face, as she talked about the various onments and different bandages, she often heard her dad mension, but never cared enough to ask about. Allen had interupted Frances' tangent, silencing her. She spent the next five minutes blushing. She thought that if she asked Allen about his music that she didn't really care about it, she could live the moment down, but instead Allen found himself too annoyed to answer her questions.

    Once the show started, Frances was tempted to cry. This date had to work. They were meant to be together and this moment would happen. Frances didn't work this hard, and come this far just for things to not work out. Allen was a tortured, artsy, musical hipster and Frances was the intelligent mistress waiting to fall in love. They were meant to be together. Frances had to turn this date around.

    She leaned over to kiss him.

    The kiss only lasted a few seconds but it was kind of gross. Inside it was almost like a battlefeild, where both the man and the women wanted to wear the pants, so the pants became all streched and saggy in the butt to the point they became unwearable. Plus, his breath smelled like tabacoo. Gross.

    She went in a second time. This time Frances could feel her cheeks flare up, like the romance was litterally lighting the room and she could feel herself melting into him until finnally he released and said,

    "That was really disgusting,"

    Frances' eyes became perfect circles. She suddenly felt as if she was a dream, and she was hearing words that just possibly couldn't come out of someone's mouth. Or was she? No, this doesn't happen to Frances Cascano, she decided, but then he continued,

    "This isn't working."

    Frances looked into his eyes. She knew that by the way he always stared at her, that he liked her and thought she was pretty, but Frances couldn't understand why her inside could never measure up to her outside. What had she done wrong? Where was the magic? Why wasn't their magic and why was this play so ******** terrible? Frances screamed internally.
    "Look," he said awkwardly. He looked at Frances. He liked her choclette brown eyes, and how her eyelashes, albet globbed with mascara, flowed from her face. He liked how she looked so good in floral. Most of all, everytime he saw her dance, he felt the need to write a song about how beautiful it was. A few days ago he would have died to kiss her. Fought for her but he just found it gross how her tounge was all up in him. Most of all, he hated how she insisted upon bringing them to this awful play. He would have much perfered driving in his car, and going where ever his hands wanted to take him, as suppose to 'making plans'. For him, the magic moments of his life came unexpected. Most of the time, apathy filled him, but he was okay with that. He was content with living a meaningless exsistence of smoking weed, and freestyling on his guitar, as long as he had moments that meant more then that to look back on. Every minute he was alive, a moment could come.

    He blushed. He blushed because Frances blushed. He could see the tears form into her eyes. He wanted to wipe away those tears that seemed to punch a hole in his stomach but that desire couldn't match his desire for the truth. "Please, just be your self. I know that you are an awesome person, but this date just totally sucked." Warm blood flowed though his cheeks like a wildflower.

    The scene ended. The actors bowed on stage. No one clapped.

    "Let's stop pretending. The show's over."

    Frances looked away, so he couldn't see her crying. She knew, that he knew, she'd been pretending and she was so ******** bad at it, it almost made her want to throw up. She'd messed up her own happy ending. Every since she'd seen him. So warm, so real, she'd wanted him and he wanted her but she wanted him so bad that she burn on the inside simply by seeing him. Then she talked to him. She started texting him. First it started off as short, very awkward conversations, like "sup?" and "nm", but slowly they spent the next couple of months asking more and more questions, until she found him questioning every aspect of her life. Because of him, she'd discovered more about herself, then she even thought exsisted. It was because of him, that she realized she wasn't a shower. Growing up, she'd only known shopping, schoolwork, girlfriends, tennis, dance, and was never taught to question it all. He had taught her music, romance, poetry, dreams, freedom, performance, art. He had introduced her to her five favorite poets. She'd even read a few of his poems, which was more than his ex-girlfriend could take the time to do. Frances wanted to spit in a cup every time she thought of her. The day Allen threw away his seven month ring for her, Frances went home, blasted Gwen Stafani, and danced in ectasy. She IMed him that night on facebook like she had every day of that school year, and she wasn't sure what had happened afterwards, but she ended up here.

    Unlike his ex, she could accept Allen for his occasional smoking, and his aspiration to not fail his all his classes. Unlike her, she didn't think poets were gay. She couldn't bring herself to dislike someone for the way they spent their time, even if it was something she personally found revolting.

    Still, Frances hated herself for not judging him. Mascara continued to streak black marks down her face as her blue eyes shadow contined to stain her sweater sleeve. She looked ugly when she cried. Or at least she thought so: red nose, puffy eyes, and diasterous makeup.

    As the show ended, Frances contined to stare off into space. Allen waited for Frances to recover, and then escorted her out of the teather until she found herself on an empty city street.

    She knew that for the next couple weeks, she wouldn't have to guts to talk to him...or any of his friends for that matter. She didn't want anyone pointing at her and she shivered at the thought of stares. Gossip. And any of that crap. She hated how people treated her like an overexposed photo--she'd been shined in such a bright light, that her image became distorted. She thought that though expressing herself, people would understand her, but there were times were she had stretched her truth, like when she metiforically threw away her pink skirts for everyone else's whites. She didn't even have to think to question her motives. She knew what it was all about. Her desire to feel connected with everything and everyone, and to have so much magic and excitement and beauty and feeling and aspiration in her life, when there was almost none.

    She'd attented all of her school's rallys. Joined the debate team. Wrote for the school's newspaper, yet she still found people ignoring her on the streets. They were usually tired business men, or mother's waiting to get their groceries, or children serching for a new favorite toy. They were usually teenagers figiting with their phone. They were usually elderly men waiting to cross the street, as they complianed about the whole health care system, when it could be almost easy to make a difference. Sometimes, they were even teachers, that forced kids to crunch numbers, while reading literature they didn't even understand. They were all the same but Frances didn' t think herself different.

    Yet, when she went on stage, and she felt the lights shine on her face, as she danced, danced danced, she found herself living for so much more. The many times she performed, couldn't compare to the few times she'd gotten high. She lived for the days that she could see children coming out of the teather, chatting rapidly about the dancing they'd seen. She lived for all days, that even the winter snow looked like dancing diamonds in the sky. Receiving a standing novation, as the entire audience exploded into clamor, seemed like Frances' idea of a perfect date...but, they're was piece missing to the whole idea, and there was no satisfaction in doing a puzzle, if there was something missing.

    `Experiencing that passion was meaningless, if she couldn't spread it like a wildfire. With love there would be not one moment she felt like she couldn't pour out all her memories, her entire feelings, opinions, and b***h like crazy, throw a fit like toddler, scream and cry, ******** and fight without feeling like there wouldn't be a day that he would get tired of it all and leave her behind so she could be the invisable speck admist the New York City jungle. She'd wanted love like that ever since she was 13 and kissed a boy underneath the fireworks, only for him to dissappear into the monotamy of the large world. She'd spent her freshman year wearing low cut shirts. She'd lean over, and try to get a boy to smell her lipgloss, so he would kiss her, but she'd never found anyone who reminded her of her summer love. Allen was the closest thing.

    It wasn't meant to be though. This wasn't a night of fireworks. She wouldn't kiss him on the rooftop of her apartment, while looking down at the street lights. This was the night she'd walk home alone and pass the various bums that polluted her sidewalk. She'd step in the puddles that were too dirty for her play in, as acid rain splashed onto her umbrella. No. This wasn't a night of magic. Still, she refused to cry herself to sleep.