1𝓭 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓬

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~alright, alright!!! calm down, people!!!

instead of my wisply short one hundred and fifty things to visualize about whoever the fuck, i now wrote a fully planned-out elopement story, with a plot actually going somewhere, with our undeniably, sentimentally sweet, dripping with the sugariest honey from a humming beehive as you take a sneaky nibble from it, warmly baked to plenary perfection, mochi-textured, angel-dusted honeybun: harry freaking styles from his one direction era!!!

in this fic, i’m imagining him as a mix of cupcake harry x frat boy harry x prince hair harry, but feel free to think of him in whichever 1d era you prefer best!!!

now, without further ado, i present to you part one of the fifteen chapters of: 𝒾’𝓂 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓾𝓷 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓇𝓎… <3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter one: boyfriends are overrated!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for her perspective: this is what makes us girls - lana del rey

recommended song for his perspective: they don’t know about us - one direction ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~it starts as it always does, right?

there’s always a barefoot and brave boyfriend driving late at night through the cloudstorm deluge to see his comely, chocolate-box, prettylicious girlfriend in utter secrecy from nosy, snoopy public eyes.

but courageously dauntless harry styles remains unafraid, because the scariest thing in front of him is the scattering lights, blurring and blinding him on the conveniently, nearly vacant highway, as the rainfall leaves gentle taps on the crystally-glass windows of his tuxedo-ebony car (is the universe trying to catch his preoccupied attention?), further seizing his eyesight, the stars almost being his only source of direction despite the invention of the dear gps.

with lovesickness catching up to him like a persistent fever that won’t leave, he can’t get the thought of her out of his racing mind, leaving him to sit defenselessly in his own passionate pain.

along with the digital clock glowing red like cheap drugstore candy that every child looks forward to after school, cycling their marred bike in the ovenlike sun (something harry wishes he could have right now) just to get a taste of it, and the sound of the dripping rain, with the clement car music barely tuning it out, he’s quite overwhelmingly annoyed by the sensory assaults and the extensive drive that keep unremittingly badgering him.

but any man with cupid’s curse does, matter-of-factly, do just about anything for the devoted woman he loves.

most would, at least…

can’t say much for men nowadays, can we?

anyway, continuing on with the story!

the rain starts to calm down, like a helplessly crying newborn, as he exits the friendless highway, turning to meet her even lonelier street and seeing the dampened concrete catch the light of the moon—just like new york city’s greased sidewalks, which are just like their celebrated, state-adored pizza.

indomitable and logically virile, he parks a block down from her house, careful not to crash into the sunflower-colored fire hydrant, the null night dimming its peppy brightness unapologetically, as he lets out a vexatious, tiresome sigh: “who in the hell would put that there?”

when he emerges from his vehicle, he takes in the scene of the tristful avenue, observing every scintillating streetlight and fictitious passing person.

without a look of frightful hysteria with every step he takes, the chilling droplets slide down his anarchic curls, down to his dusky, rusty-russet plaid flannel—which makes him seem assuredly more american than a british boy from uneventfully wearisome england—and is not spared either, sticking to him like the sugary honeybun he is.

climbing her white picket fence, then having the miry grass cling to his white-pastel bare feet as he walks closer and closer, feeling her energetic presence as he gets nearer; and let us not forget to say “God bless” to the youthful teenage body, because he climbs up to her bedroom window, a far-from-perfect opening for a teen boy to sneak into, cautious not to crush her well-looked-after dainty posies and earthy herb garden, refraining from antagonizing her woofing watchdog, and even more assiduous not to humiliate himself by falling or splintering his hand on the splitting wooden frame.

as he holds onto the slippery metal part of the windowsill, cracking the window open, he sees his minty-cool breath, sugared, cleaned, glazed-donut skinned, and pristinely washed, blow-dried, downy-haired girlfriend doing her nightly routine by her vanity table for her beauty sleep that every girl universally hungers after, dealing with the day-to-day, pestiferously picture-perfect world.

isn’t it otherworldly—surreal even—how something so contradictory can exist at the contemporaneous same time?

now, having her perceive her (this essentially needs uttermost flowery language because it’s inexorable girlhood) heroically debonair boyfriend, the muliebrity female race can’t help themselves when they see laddish, veined hands peering from her aperture, coming from her priceless, heart-claimed lover-boy, who is realistically the exemplary, perfect accessory for every outing.

which is satirically funny, because didn’t she say, “boyfriends are overrated anyway,” when she was still fixated in her lamentably pure-hearted, girlish attitude?

“hey angel…” he compliments her with the gifted nickname, no nonexistent inhibitions hindering his enchantedness.

“you scared me…” a momentarily surprised gasp whispers from her lips, paired with a less-than-sincere, staged huff—her siren-song to stand up.

alongside his feet sinking into her marshmallowy-airy carpet, the mist hopping away like a pilose bunny-rabbit with every footfall, he approaches her—a simpering, hesitatingly heartwarming smile founding itself on his face—as she settles into her princessy-plush bed.

“who else would it be?” he answers hushedly, his rain-awash, inky, distressed, fitted jeans brushing against her lavender-lotion skin—not her usual nonnative, plumeria-and-paradise-fruit smell—as he cascades onto her.

“you’re all dripping wet…! and where are your damn shoes…?” she falsifies a susurrate-cry, all while he twirls her balletically laced, rosewater-pigmented nightdress.

“you smell pretty…” and, like all men, he attempts to redirect the uncomfy conversation in his auspicious favor.

“don’t try and change the subject, harry.” she sarcastically scoffs, twinning with his mannerism, but instead dances her fingers over his damp, coily lockettes of hair—not knowing if it’s seawater-salty sweat, heartbroken cloud tears, or both—affectionately scratching the aching-to-touch part of his sensitive head with her winsome, burgundy gel–manicured nails, his indignation leaving without delay.

but, in his defense, patient ladies and gentlemen of the jury, she does smell “pretty.”

but gosh, couldn’t he be more descriptive? what’s the issue with men’s preference for more straightforward language? maybe he should partake—to learn to be rather more explanatory for a change…

seriously, “pretty” just doesn’t quite cut it.

inspired by the famously loved blonde, sex symbol, marilyn monroe herself, she wears perfume for her much-awaited dreamland visit (is this what midnight ballerinas do, too?), just like her.

and i think we all know by now that she is a kittenish, coquette girl (aren’t all cuteish boy band fangirls?), so she doesn’t wear the florally fragrant, sophisticated chanel no. 5 for her restful renewal.

however, both opulently distinctive brands, she has a comprehensible inclination for the luminously luxurious, juvenile miss dior parfum, cherishing it like it’s a breakable antiquity, locked up in isolation in a transparently polished case—clearer than niall’s deficiently colorblind self and harry’s temporary sightless situation in the unsparing Heaven’s teardrops (why are the angels tormented with heartache? is our physical world really a visage of despondency?)—and, in all likelihood, she esteems the feminine-presenting relic to the highest regard.

might as well say she loves it more than anything—even him.

“remembering shoes is hard when you’re the only thought i have that ever crosses my mind…” he says shyly, his clunky, ring-full hand rising to graze her summery, strawberry-rosy-red cheeks, somehow bashfully blushing more than the gauche boy himself.

the earthen-cool air breezing through her window eases his quickening heartbeat, matching hers like two harmonious friends dressed alike on a disquieting halloween night, their hearts neglecting beats as well, but uniquely for artificially noxious, colorfully crafted candy (would the sugar sincerely help them, or just exacerbate the already dire, exuberantly overexcited children, who by this point are bouncing off the abused walls?) that looks like vibrant birthday-cake confetti.

“you sure have such a way with words, don’t you?” she lightly teases, and she is emphatically correct, because even the brilliant shakespeare people all know and love could never securely redeem her inarticulate boyfriend’s falsities with such unforeseen exactitude and all-encompassing artistry.

“i learnt that from you…” he replies, with another timidly timed, lighted ecstasy upon his lips, mindfully straightening to sit up, hand resting on her hip, and shifting her weight onto his soggy, room-temperature–peanut-butter-and-jelly-sandwich–that-got-dipped-in-cold-milk-for-too-long lap, before his nauseatingly oversweetened treacle of a smile fades away, like the last breath of a tropical darling sunset on that one close-to-heart childhood vacation you unequivocally miss.

but with all the abysmally grievous politics happening around us, it all—and only—makes sense that you do.

“i want to go to a secret somewhere, far away from here…”

she chooses her words wisely (sorta…) before she confusedly answers him with mystification: “what do you mean by that?” (yep, wise words chosen!)

she falteringly asks the exact moment she comfortably nestles her full body weight on him, peacefully leaning against his burly, but marshmallows-left-melting-in-hot-cocoa, gummy-bear-glutinous-textured chest, feeling up and molesting his mixed-metal chain adornings around his strong neck, considering how it can handle all his prettiest problems.

“i don’t want to keep saying goodbye to you like this, leaving you alone for so long while i’m gone,” he says, stealing nuanced glances like an apologetic, self-reproachful puppy-dog, who took a bite out of the enthusiastically anticipated, fresh-out-of-the-oven thanksgiving turkey.

as he continues, his hand traces from her back to her willowy-lithe lower waist, similar to ancient tree roots guarding their lauded, most eminent mother earth.

“there will always be the kind that criticize…”

“wait, where are you going with this?” she irritatingly, but well-intentioned, interrupts him, as he caressingly cradles her fluffyish lower tummy, unruffled by her brusque suspension.

"do you remember that promise ring i gave you last valentine's day?" he lets the definitive romantical moment catch her, holding still before her speech can reach her thoughts.

“the darry ring?” she offers with question, while he presents her with an affirmatively speaking nod and a breathy, suppressed laugh.

“yeah, that one.”

let’s take a trip down serenely sweet memory lane, shall we?

with freshly hot, bouncy curls; chronically chemical-radiating hairspray; sparkly ultramarine-azul and bubblegum makeup, with a tint of metallic mercury at the corner sweep of her eyes; a tiffany-teal, water-flowing minidress (layla from buffalo ’66, who?); dangly jewelry; a pinky-pie, pinkalicious cardigan; a complementing piece matching her baby-pink heels, not too far off from her purse; and a fairly similar scarf, wrapped around her neck like a flirty valentine’s day bow—perfect for the one-of-a-kind occasion, tying it all together as though she is a tastefully styled, angel-baby gift for him only.

what man could resist being compelled to propose to such a resplendent artifact?

bestowing a burnished sterling silver ring, artfully fashioned with bordeaux-claret rubies that transmute into persian-pomegranate roses under a meticulous stare.

but before that, his words fell evidently dulcet…

“what a sight…” he voices a true-blue truth, hugging the gifts he had considerably and ponderingly picked out for her.

“you almost look as good as when i first met you backstage in that little black dress…” he lets his words soundlessly fall around them, as he watches her crimsoning face, with a fluttery titter of countenance melting the frostiness of the winter-tinged, stale-air room, as she comes down her irksomely, protesting-like-radicals creaky stairs.

“i’d eat you. you look like candy floss…” (oh, how i love cultural differences!), he daringly notes in front of her mother, offering his hand like he is a hypnotizingly handsome prince, obliviously missing the fact that the regional contrast is exclusively, distinctively british and uncommon to her american dialect.

“cotton candy?” she poses with quizzical curiosity, during which she takes his proffered hand the moment he passes her a velvet-furred, tangerine-orange stuffed foxy-fox, organic chocolates in a heart-shaped box (we swoop for an attentive boyfriend!), and cherry-berry roses with a love letter attached—almost all of her fancied things, given at once.

genuinely, it’s the little things that count.

“yeah, you’re my cotton candy…” he says, giving her a cheeky grinny-grin, as she sets her gifts down on the nettlesome stairs to adjust his brick-red tie—a nice contrast to his cookies ’n’ cream suit and glossy charcoal dress shoes.

blah, blah, blah!!!

some grand speech happens; he gives her the genuine, amorous donation, and she becomes his everlasting valentine—whatever!!!

you get the point.

now, back to the current moment!

“escape from the city and follow the sun…” he begins to say, clearing a stray strand of hair with his hand at liberty from her nothing-short-of-lovely face, descending down to her sweetheart locket necklace (you just know there’s a petite photograph of him locked in, and she asphyxiates it by kissing it unsympathetically), then to her betrothal token, mildly swaying his fingertip to brush it as if it were a blank canvas, where a painter would need a spark of inspiration before creating a revolutionary showpiece.

“and i start drinking, i don’t know half of what i’m thinking…” the syllables capsize and break with his voice, casting a look away from hers. “and every time i turn around, it’s only gaining speed…” dawning a murmurous, “…touching me… they’re touching me…” now veering the principally vulnerable topic away: “if i leave the band, they’re cutting me off, and i don’t get any of the money.” with a morose exhale of speech, letting go of her ringed finger, he gloomily rubs a rough hand down his troubled expression.

[FLASHBACK!!!]:

“isn’t that illegal?” she wonders aloud, instinctively seeking to know the deeper reason why he is instantly so low-spirited.

“that doesn’t stop anyone now, does it?” he counters, his gaze returning to reassuringly regard her.

“i’m tired of feeling like a distant story instead of a someone,” he heaves, carrying on, “and i want nothing less than better for you, always—more than i could ever say.” he contemplatively reflects, locking hands with hers.

a warm heart makes warm hands…

“i hate my home life, harry. i cry every night, you know that.” she gives him a tearful-pouty face, cupping her own cheeks for comfort, resisting the grief she’s already feeling so soon.

“i said i’d protect you, yeah?” he consolingly replies, languidly lowering her marginally trembling hands, with what she meets him with in response being just an elementary “mhm,” and her fingers entwine around his once more—a second time.

now, before he speaks, the silence drapes the expectant room…

“let’s just go tonight. tomorrow. it doesn’t matter. just… what if we board a plane, take a drive, and never look back?” releasing her hand, he trails a featherlight touch along the contours of her features.

“marriage? do you mean marriage?” she stops his hand midmotion.

“i mean, we always talked about it. it feels like if we don’t do this right now, we might never get the chance.” he lets his tone waver before voicing his finished thought: “you and me, no more waiting…”

as of now, she is too stunned to speak, at a complete loss for proper words.

he bows a barely-there incline, releasing her from his embrace, and rises from her comfy-cozy bed. “here, i’ll give you a couple hours to think about it. i’ll go pack my things, make arrangements, come back for you, and then we’ll make a final decision, okay? sound alright?”

“okay… i’ll wait here,” she responds in a hush, sweeping the quietude with a minimally plainspoken, “be safe.”

meanwhile, he gives her a fleeting kiss and eases himself out of her cleaving, wood, corset-like, ribbon-laced window as a haze-laden breeze rushes in, resembling her flighty first love—and only love—with harry so closely.

her breathing stirs into haste as she raises a tentative, teeny-tiny wave and a diminutive “bye.”~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter two: bye, bye…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for both of their perspectives: ready to run - one direction ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~was this how it was going to go? i mean, it isn’t spontaneous in the slightest. any discerning sweetling of a girl abhorrently reviles keeping her celebrity, british boyfriend in enclosed concealment from all but a few—or any boyfriend, for that matter.

and witnessing how burdensome his essence was, it is seemingly even more surpassably taxing on her.

but, as it ever goes, she craves the forever-suffering resonance that always seems to disturb her, to dissolve into the fathomless, obsidian chasm.

or is she only meant to inspire—and die—just like him?

and i’m aware it is clear to us all that she doesn’t see herself as marriageable—to him, or to anyone at all.

in her mind, she is always the bridesmaid, never the bride. or maybe not even a bridesmaid at all—maybe just a flowering bachelorette who will grow into a sullenly, sad old maid.

but these resounding misgivings are only overshadowed by an intensified one…

could she be the loving-souled home he needs during this mission of fervor—one that turns into an eternal expedition overnight?

looking around her dazzlingly diana sanctuary, savoring every detail, mournful that she has to abandon it before the globe can even make its turn, she commences to gather her ensembles, packing her opaline wardrobe: indispensable toiletries (some private and some not), a cotton makeup case, her favored fragrance, plus the our moment scent she swore she would wear as a young girl on her wedding day; a small pointe-shoe-pink coin purse for adornments; cultivated books with exceedingly important paper things pressed inside; her blue passport; a cuddly blanket and squishy pillow; a childhood maple-glazed, fried-chicken-looking stuffed dog with a shabby, pistachio-dyed ribbon; a first-aid kit; some sage-green cash; appetizing snacks for her; and…

an uncomplicated, dusty-cerise dress with a satin-black ribbon cinched around the waistline, a brand-new costume crown drapery (is she trying to copy priscilla presley on a limited budget?), connected to a plastic rhinestone tiara that still exudes a factory smell, and a precious moments wedding cake topper she collected a while ago for her own precious moment, which she presses to her pulsing heart before tucking it away safely.

layering the sentimental ornaments in her luggage, she starts with the unorthodox wedding gown first, then the scratchy plastic, pearly fishnet bridal canopy with a man-made material headdress, and finally the nuptial decoration on top—as if it serves its purpose in no unsure time at all.

with the last hour drawing to a close, before the course of their history becomes timelessly, irrevocably changed beyond recall, for her sanity, she forsakes a fragmentary remnant of herself in a hurried envelope—handwriting so messy it doesn’t even appear associated with her—so her selfish mother doesn’t cry herself into heartsick exhaustion.

but if that’s her purest intention, the beginning—“dearest, mommy…”—brings zero serenity, truly, because an espousal is a sanctified must-see in motherhood.

and i’m sure daddy wouldn’t be too thrilled either, even if he isn’t around anymore—but how does his opinion matter? it’s not like he ever took part in the raising…

to clarify, she knew what she was getting herself into the minute her friend paid for a once-in-a-lifetime one direction concert—surcharged when they met the britishy and irishy lads offstage, behind the spotlight, that they both cheerfully attended.

so, can she be blamed to the fullest?

now, as the clock elapses, she inaudibly hopes it’s all a fever dream, slipping her droopy, whisked-cream-hued, knitted sweater over her billowy nightgown, twisting her hair back into a prettified pain aux raisin, leaving her vacated room, parting from her domesticated animals, placing her undeniably colossal suitcase and contrasting, fanciful purse by her front door—careful not to wake up her mom with a blaring commotion—and then waiting anxiously on the snuggly sofa for her taking-his-sweet-time boyfriend.

a little bit dramatic of her, because it doesn’t take much time for him to return, ensuring she is finished collecting her things.

with the eventuality finally happening, he walks up to her aged door, giving a gentle tip-tapping knock. once she unlatches the entryway, it is so sudden when she impulsively states, “i’m ready to run away with you, harry…”

he searchingly reads her eyes for a plaintive, ambivalent contrition. “then we leave now.” as a controlled exhale escapes him, he takes her hand, giving it a chivalrous close-contact kiss, then draws her into his tenacious arms. “go get comfortable in the car, and i’ll load up your things before we set off, ‘right?”

“okay… i will,” she says, giving him a sighing sibilate as she dons her relaxed footwear and makes her way to his midnight mobile in the light drizzle, entering it with the overpowering tutti frutti redolence from the candies scattered throughout—quite charming, noticing that she has to mollifiedly clear the space to sit restfully.

as he collects her stuff and lifts them into the trunk, before he even delivers back her chic handbag, he pacifyingly tells her, “if ever you change your mind, i want to know. i won’t be angry.”

“i know,” she then gestures with a nodding fineness.

now, away they go to catch a flight, departing her secluded but heavenly, stunning state behind. and it’s undoubtable that his reposeful, placid vacation on her coastal island is currently stressful. though—would he be favorable to trade a singular, relaxing holiday for evermore lifetimes with his faithful soulmate?

having revved the engine, the wheels accelerating, and neither of them buckled in, she promptly switches the radio station to rock ‘n’ roll, because it’s challenging to break down to such music.

involuntarily, she becomes unable to stop herself from conferring a tacit goodbye to both of her homes, as the same quiescent realization unites them to disable their locations and silence their bound-to-be-buzzing phones.

is she looking for a taste of real life, or did the overbearing isolation already kill her ages ago?

i’d apprehend racy teenage love better if i were confronted with the identical dilemma, acknowledging that her boyfriend is her only liberation from her inner tribulation.

moving further on, the rutted, hilly road appears never-ending, simultaneously jiggling her thighs like flan pudding as she eyes the dystopian lamppost, accompanied by the mizzle that glitters in the reflected light, but then becomes inattentive because of her boyfriend’s changed, fashionable apparel: a buttercup-brown coat (he especially loves the hooded ones for confidentiality) with nalu-blue plaid on the inside.

and now, seeing the vividly nearing airport only causes her to feel queasy, worsening progressively upon arrival at the valet, the music ceasing, withdrawing to abandon them in agonizing silence.

her heart dances the feverish hymn of life, without the grace of a russian-born swan-lake ballerina; suddenly, without warning, she zealously climbs on top of him, forcibly coercing a belligerent kiss—but it strikes an even more startling note when she can’t hold back her heartwater, which starts to roll down her neck and his.

“hey, hey, it’s okay...” courteous harry ceases the freakish friskiness with his compassionate sentiments, despite the chills caused by the unexpectedness.

“shhh-shhh-shhh, i’ve got you…” he consoles her, the tips of his fingers trailing along her brittle, autumn-branchlet spine. “i saw your body language and i know how you’re feeling. just know that we can always go back if you want.”

“no! i want to! i promise!” she hisses like a spoiled, entitled kitty-cat, a simmering exclamation as she untangles herself from his enfold—a lissome retreat—while she undertakes to vent over again, a shatterable sight to behold.

“i’m just overwhelmed, harry. are we lousy people for doing this? i’m honestly scared… are you feeling the same way?”

he delicately so cups her tear-streaked face. “no, i’m not scared. i know we’ll get through this together. we’ll always have each other, no matter the situation, okay?”

the worried look wears off before she grants him the same “okay.”

before she can second-guess herself again, a well-dressed man opens the car door. keys gone, their baggages taken away—no one asks for tickets, not a single crowding line, no announcements echoing overhead. just polished concrete, a low vibration of engines, and a sleek, streamlined, mental-asylum-white plane ahead of them, as he walks the lightweight, narrow steps with darksome carpeting, her sniffling beside him, and lighting lining the edges so nothing feels industrial… or to not have the passengers trip to avoid being sued.

this is america, after all!

and when they are ultimately greeted, there is not an obligated smile in the whole vicinity—just courtesy. everything moves like practiced discretion. it’s unreal how swift it is.

when she looks about the interior, at the frosty-to-the-feel leather tan seating areas, it all feels closer to a lived-in, hearthlike living room than an aircraft—much smaller than she conjured.

now, with his turn to survey, he is captive to the unvarnished notion that this is the farewell to the opulence he has become accustomed to.

as they arrange themselves, time clandestinely creeps along, and, tediously, the pair of them restlessly toss and turn on the upholsteries, the remaining hours of the night melting away before ushering in the dawn of daybreak. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter three: a sprinkly celebration (it’s a party!!!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for her perspective: brooklyn baby - lana del rey

recommended song for his perspective: everything about you - one direction ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~overlooking in the golden state, in high california skies, where, in the city of angels, if you stay there, you become an angel yourself (like many, she is all for the idea of dreamtown, movie stars, the walk of fame, you name it—both of you guys should rethink yourselves…), she automatically exclaims a jovial, “oh my goodness!” but her worldly boyfriend isn’t exactly moved by the passable scenery, but instead is touched by basking in her ecstatic radiance.

and by default, the upheaval turbulence is their natural cue that the airplane readies for landing.

descending down to lax, she can, by this time, sense the atmospherically rich ambiance of america’s mainland, and inhale the finalities of her homeland’s air.

upon disembarking, securing their valises, and giving urbane and poised goodbyes, they encounter an unthinkable obstacle…

the dumbasses didn’t think about future transportation.

they have no choice but to meander around outside and inside the aerodrome, aimlessly like astray puppies, before the genius himself gets a splendid idea.

walking over to fixate and conspire over a senior, spotty, powdery, ashy-gray and baby-blue, apparently deserted truck—which possesses a bright, prisoner-pumpkin-orange towing notice folded in the windshield wiper in the long-term rental facility—but, if that isn’t enough, the pesky keys are barred within, like criminals themselves.

“give me your hairpin,” he frustratingly grumbles, fidgeting with the chipped handle.

“no! as if i’ll mess up my beautiful hair!” she fusses, crossing herself off (figuratively and literally), the cutesy petulance needling him in the midst of it.

“just give it here. don’t be difficult.” he expels a soughful breath.

“hmph, whatever…” she rolls her eyes skyward, uninterested, extracting it and relinquishing it to him as an imitation curl falls, and braces her back against the left side, right by him, off-sensing, “could’ve said ‘thank you,’ at least!”

it’s a miracle to have a handy man, because he unlocks it surprisingly speedily.

salivating (she should have imaginary, buttery popcorn!!!) over her understatedly straining boyfriend stashing the stuff in the pickup box, she gets all giggly—that shortly ends with an interruption, with a dive inside the oppressively sweltering automobile, getting situated and making themselves at home in frayed, discomfited, mist-kissed gray seats.

and so they get going with their smittenly besotted journey. but if you’re concerned about theft, it’s borrowed; don’t take it to heart. whoever the forgetful, mysterious person is, i’m positive they’d want a honeyed-hearted couple to have it. it’s so they can be a much-appreciated contributor to this love story!

“piece of shit,” he shudders a lament as he drives out of the arid parking lot, and, while he engages the shitty wiper, she, on the contrary, is over the moon that he keeps getting more and more americanized by each passing day.

hitting the brakes by a newly constructed service station, using either one of their combined dollars to accumulate pickup-truck necessities to full capacity, for them to relieve themselves, to both freshen up (he’s not high-maintenance, but he knows a little self-care matters) in the uncommonly hygienic public bathroom, and to change into new outfits in the stuffily torrid, airless truck.

during the refueling, they are drawn to meet each other’s contemplative gaze, checking out one another’s sartorial sense. he admires her inconspicuously cool-girl, no-brassiere-on, in a kat-stratford-way, bedazzled-embellished—in delicate, intimate parts—tinkerbell-emerald, silky slip-on dress; swingy pearlette earrings; a matching oceanic treasure necklace; with her oversized alabaster-vanilla cardigan; unlucky black-cat-buckled, pointed kitten heels; and her quirky purse that doesn’t quite go well with it.

now, with his informal (hypocrite much?) attire, she quite loves his sailor-navy jacket, with a covering that camouflages him with the unrememberable populace, also retaining predominately diminished macaroon-maroon plaid inwards, which complements his unpretentious, colorless, bleached t-shirt—alternative from the moonless-noir tee he swapped out of—and is pairing this all with his godawful, tenebrous, tight skinny jeans.

but that is a meaningless passing moment because, as the passenger princess, she notices the renowned and storied hollywood sign, which, for some unconventional association, prompts her to think of an eye-catching, frozen indulgence and, as a rule, a final dish.

adjacent to the “piece of shit,” putting the nozzle back in its holder, stepping inside it, before they merge into incoming traffic, at that precise second, she asks (it’s more of a demand), “can we get ice cream?”

“ice cream for breakfast?” his eyebrows furrow. “really?”

she acknowledges him with an animatedly vivacious dip of assent. “yeah! it’ll be so yummy! pleaseee!”

“well, alright.” the well-meant, snickery tone denies his nonchalance.

she emits an electrified “yay!” applauding happily, counting down to when she will obtain the waxy aftertaste of the rainbow-sprinkled, vanilla-bean–tasting, iced sweet treat.

withdrawing from his door, walking over to open hers, the baking waffle cones already pleasing their olfactory perceptions, only heightened as they cross the threshold of a glassy, french door that rings a ringy, sun-kissed bell above them.

what’s the insufferably long hang-up for just a lone, flavored ice cream?

you don’t even have to guess his sexual orientation…

it is a talkative fruitcake, whose oily blemishes are about to cause an eruptive disruption (how doesn’t his choppedness repel consumers?), in an infantile, clownish uniform, pontificating in circles about hypocritical “self-acceptance” and “identity,” rectifying the plain, creamy cones with prismatic-colored decorative toppings (he’s too proud of such things), with every purchaser sharing the same reflection: “are those even safe to eat?”

while harry, conversely, whisperingly reports, “what decent man would do this to himself?”

that’s his philosophy.

but everyone surreptitiously concludes that, too.

after acquiring the glacial, treacly, exalted article, deliberate not to get indoctrinated in the process, they venture towards a west coast beach park—the one with riotous kiddos running around and kicking gritty granules of sand as they do so.

while both of them sit and share it together on the blazing, metallically-made monkey bars, enjoying each bite of bliss, they notice a contrivedly dyed, communist-colored hair that is unintentionally flexuous (needless to say, the rest of her harlequin face paint is suckier than sucky), dissidently pierced all over, heavy-set, inked-covered jezebel, who takes up more space than she needs in a sports bra only meant for athletics, which she doesn’t participate in; daisy dukes that are many sizes too small; and sandals that are paper-thin because they can’t sustain her substantial size.

“you kids really shouldn’t be up there. the real littles need to have their turn,” she delivers an abrasively obnoxious howl, very much like an afflicted wolf—just a repulsive and extra-chubby one.

the pair shows marginal opposition as harry hops down, catching her as she shadows after him, while she is conscientious not to drop the indulgent temptation upon impact; both insincerely convey a disingenuous “thanks” as they stroll away from her dwindling, trifling vocalization that diminishes with each footstep, with an utterance from his girlfriend—“i didn’t know we were at the circus”—suppressing amusement, and he copies.

why is cali so brimful with these crazies?

yet, discerning the coastline with pom-pom palm trees, there are toned women and muscular men who keep their mouths shut.

so, i guess the united states is a country teeming with contradictions, extremes, and diversity.

now, eventually unwinding on the peachy-nude sandy sediment, finishing up the dangerously delicious, dribbling mess (is she becoming supplementally content with calories?), sprinkles on their lips and ice cream coating their teeth; a fine-featured spanish gentleman timbering like zayn’s consummate high note over harry’s repetition of “it’s lovely, innit?” or “scrummy,” unceasingly remindful of a glitchy robot, she adoringly interposes, melodiously declaring, “i know you call these ‘hundreds and thousands’…”

agreeing with a slight tilt, “only the fanciest for you, love,” biting back a smiley face.

“why do you sound like an overrefined, effete grandpa?” she questions, licking the drippy cream off of her lady fingers.

“why do you sound like a tinseltown movie star?” he claps back, self-satisfied with himself, supplying her the last munchie as a fecklessly, puny apology.

left in simulated resignation, taking in the guilty pleasure of the “insult” as a compliment, completing the ending mouthful of the finale of sweetness, and dusting her hands off, she comes back fiercer: “fine, no more kisses for you tonight...”—the bitterest, most coercive sentence for a lover-man to hear.

“c’mon, don’t be cruel…” he loops the individual tress of her hair around his clingy finger—the monarch of redirection.

“then give me your cute jacket. i’ll even exchange with you!” she negotiates, endeavoring to tug it off him.

“sure, but what about my cover?” he consents to her, though doubtful.

“nobody cares! just give it here!” she objectionably outcries, busily clawing it from his well-built body.

prying it from him with unparalleled success, she removes her porcelain-bone knit, tosses it to his open arms as he maintains a clutch of it, arraying his on herself, absconding away and fleeing in the furnace-like daylight, him chasing after her—as he should—crafting their own wind, scattering beach dust behind them, and tracking their own footprints.

there is just one thing left to ask you…

is she so london, her own style, or is he so london, his own style?

her hustling away like a thieving canine companion pilfering your fuzzy socks, making her way to the salt-kissed, ocean-worn, truncated pier, while some people scarcely leer at him but say nothing, yet she shrieks, pointing at a water puppy—similar to how the pedestrians are to him—drawing attention to herself instead: “harry, look! a baby seal!”

“isn’t she so adorable?” she declares, while he endorses her. “it is, yeah.”

though, as she leans forward, the humblest splash in all of america takes place…

and just like kim kardashian, she disastrously loses her earring—not diamond, but still an earring!

“oh, no! harry!” she whines, starting to be a teary-eyed damsel.

“i’ll go get it,” he readily comes to her rescue, straightaway diving into the saline pacific waves, only discarding non-waterproof valuables on the side, considerate not to come in skin-on-skin contact with the soft-bodied, sweet creature.

spraying the beachy ocean water from his tumble, she scrutinizes the effervescent air bubbles surfacing above, the tingle of solicitude enveloping her as she crumbles to her bare knees.

soon enough, he resurfaces from the exertion with the blingy, kinetic emblem that was once a vestige, frenziedly catching his breath before clambering back up to where she is.

the stickiness washed away, his olympic ringlets of hair already first smooched by the ocean’s kiss, and on the verge of omitting to endow the formerly lost ear jewel.

“here you are,” he wheezes, light-headed but sweet on her.

he faces a ticking clock because she doesn’t vacillate to drown him again… in kisses.

“oh, thank you so much!” mwah, mwah, mwah! suffocating kiss after suffocating kiss…

fantastically, the boy could’ve just passed away right then and there, pulseless. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter four: an angel on the rooftop!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for both of their perspectives: hey angel - one direction ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~forthwith, with her unslept and him alert-eyed from the precipitous immersion and sweetness (she is unaffected by the saccharose because she is already the confectioner’s favorite saccharin) that awoken him, they proceed back to their rubbish transport.

the beckoning lullaby hour invites her name (of course, she wants to be meadow-bright for the marriage ceremony), coaxing her to fall asleep in the hindquarters, whilst he desiccates his permeable clothes with anything within reach (probably with her almond-paste knitwear), then empties her carryall to furnish her with her packed comforters for extra coziness, besides his in-vogue outerwear.

and while she’s in her demurely dreamlike state, he intently fixes his focus on her from the rearview mirror, before outsetting the transmission.

at the cusp of this juncture, she has the foremost, premier few hours of sweet dreams she has ever had because he avoids bumpy spots on the road.

reviving from her somnolent shuteye, her disheveled hair upstages her—extending her extremity points, massaging her eyes, and then tilting closer, pressing a caring kiss on his squeezable cheek—while he steers the whiny wheel, so sycophantic of her.

“i want ice cream again…” she whinily tells, polishing his cheek with hers.

“again? am i being extorted?” the denoting lightheartedness flees from his grasp. “is this what it is?”

“well, i have a defensible justification…” she bubbly expresses.

“and what would that be?” he glows, so in love. the austerity is never there.

“i love you…” she sings, her words woven of threads of gold.

she verily embodies the true femme fatale.

cruising to a stop at a five-star hotel, arriving in the palatial lobby, and spotting the envisaged creamery on the right-bright corner that displays an inviting signage, anyone could mistake it for Heaven itself.

and watching wastefulness right before their eyes, the insatiable gluttons dispose of their not-even-moldy muffins from the charitable hotel breakfast.

is this what excessive wealth does to people?

irrespective, with an array of multicolored artisanal creams and their intriguing name tags—the ambrosial aroma sedates them, the see-through jars crowded with bonbons, a squiggly cursive menu, nestlike upholstered nooks, gossamer classical music being washed out by chatter, and a normal-looking server, for once—they become enticed by such a princely attraction.

empowering her to order before him, she americanly requests, “can i get peanut butter and chocolate, please?”

with him after her, announcing his civil instructions so decisively, alike to the initial light of spring, “may i please do mint chocolate chip?”

contemplating their next-in-line scooped, coned confection, exchanging looks, they reach the same conclusion to…

snatch it and not make a payment!

to be clear, this place gets more than enough coinage from persons all over the planet—it’s excusable! moreover, they need to conserve for the more important things for sweetful survival!

yelling hurries, sprinting to the terrace in the fireproof stairwell to oversee the sundown spectacle and relish their dulcified delightfulness over the los angeles cityscape, wondering sonder taking over them with each skylight—until he is overtaken by irresistibility to tell her, “you’re my only angel…”

coming to think of it, could she fly if she gruesomely jumps off, or would that only come subsequently?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter five: double the trouble!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for both of their perspectives: trouble (unreleased) - harry styles/one direction ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~as the evenfall comes to an end, they make their way back down to the unforgettable first floor, but are imminently terrorized by a paparazzi scare.

so far, that decoy in london is just loafing around and isn’t doing shit.

staccato sparks are widespread everywhere; false suicide allegations left and right; reporter after reporter chafing him with damaging interrogatives, each of which he comprehensibly and decisively disallows.

rushing back to the only place they can call “home” for now, still guiding her in and closing her access door, he then steps around the nuisances and eases in himself to expeditiously depart.

on the verge of heavy-hearted lachrymose, removing himself from the riot, he stops at a local fast-food chain as he goes around back to retrieve his other invaluable lifeline.

reentering, just this time in the back section, to melodize his musical instrument for just a glimmer of consolation.

“you packed a guitar, but not—” remarking an inconsiderate, incomplete statement, she angles herself to fall in love with his performance all over again.

“hush…” he shushes her, strumming the preliminary scintilla chords he touches.

♫ “i’ve got scars, even though they can’t always be seen…” ♫

he can’t see it through to finalize the residual, lamenting part of the song, becoming reticent for a handful of remindful starry winks.

love blues or love pangs? he doesn’t even know.

“i miss my mum… my parents…” his edition of the despairingly constant of brokenness cracks, a callback of forced reflections. “there’s flashing lights in my mind, i keep going back to the time…” but then he tearfully hesitates, “i’ll love them endlessly…”

and having nowhere to tear up alone at night, it makes him continually unable to cry in a cool way.

she maneuvers herself in the aft with him, laying down his acoustic resonator. “don’t make me cry, too! it makes me sad when you’re sad!” she frets, watery leftover cosmetic and anthracite tear-streaks grunging down her face, with mineral-rich eye-rain blotches on the sleeves of his kiss-rented overjacket.

♫ “wherever you are is the place i belong…” ♫ mashing up the medleys, he nuzzles her against him, stroking nimble fingers from end to end in her hair, ♫ “everything i need, i get from you…” ♫

thenceforth, after the cherubic cuddle, he is next seen grabbing an insubstantial box replete with soggy fries that resemble overcooked pasta all too indistinguishably, and a sugar-free, gluten-free, fat-free, and happiness-free soda for her, then resumes the original odyssey.

oh, she’ll be up all night, all right, with a drink like that, but that’s her ambition…

exposing her antiquated, sustainable, spice-barked mints with a peaches-and-cream corgi and a marmalade-terracotta reynard sticker on top of the tin next to his frenchy-fries, she implies something as they both snack on it.

mixing the refreshers and her carbonated libation together in her mouth, chewing on the plasticky straw, priming up for cinnamon-spicy kisses, she intones, ♫ “we can roll in the darkness…” ♫, persisting on like a prosody, ♫ “let me touch you where your heart is…” ♫

he flows into a dissimilar chant: ♫ “it’s too late to go home…” ♫ advancing on, ♫ “it’s not right, it’s not right…” ♫

realigning the discussion he briskly forgot, “i have a beating heart behind these curvaceous breasts, y’know?” she flirts, because the feminine form could potentially cure his heartbreakingly disconsolate downheartedness.

he withholds his acknowledgment, and she is left encouraged to shatter the unsettled fumblyness. “what’s wrong?”

“i don’t want you to regret me stopping the truck…” he hypothesizes, maintaining his eyes on the thoroughfare roadway.

“i wouldn’t!” she objects. “why don’t you want to do it now? it’s a song you sang to me when i first went to your guys’ concert,” she reminisces.

“you’re trouble… and i’m trouble with you…” at last, the beam of his most fundamentally sought-after aspiration spills forth.

until the stars sleep themselves, they just stay immersed in taciturnity—the pinnacle, optimal form of midnight memories. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter six: a prettysome traverse!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for both of their perspectives: true love travels on a gravel road - elvis presley ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ to mollify their forecasted drowsiness, they desist for relaxation in the colding night for a while, charging up their electronics after he puts on his caterpillar-striped sweater as an improvised blanket, because he doesn’t want to take from her when the heater isn’t doing much. but little does he know, he is about to be pleasantly, roastingly hottish from her thoughtfulness, until he restarts their sweet-natured quest into arizona, factoring in that the rioters cause uprisings, inconveniencing everyone but themselves.

warmed by the smidgeon of the hiding sun, she awakens from her spiritous repose, perceiving her boyfriend’s blinking seafoam eyes like hasty, fluttering butterfly wings in front of the aurora horizon behind the lucid window. he positively looks like he belongs in a claude monet painting.

fighting back a laugh of adoration in the transient seconds of the sunup, he notices his hand meeting to find hers before he imminently halts to reenergize, excusing himself to use the facilities, groom himself, and have a cordial pick-me-up at the waystation.

freshly shaved and ready to rumble, stretching while treading on the rocky road with drifting cloudy clouds hovering above him, he freezes when he sees her in a fashion that screams, like a superfan: “i’ll make you fall in love, boy!”

with her dolling herself up, using the contribution of the sunshade’s mirror to hearteningly enhance her beauty—blotting on her corally pink eyeshadow, the licorice inkiness of her eyeliner trailing a ribbon of rebellion, complimenting her busty fossil-flint tank top with backwards angel wings that really should be behind her, her light-absorbing leather skirt far too slutty to take home to mother regardless of religion, and a messy ponytail secured by a crunchy scrunchie that could make him drool—all categorically troublesome beauty that makes a man do monstrous things.

she applies her meltaway, flat-as-a-pancake finishing lip color when he cutely communicates, “let me get some of that.”

she pauses. “what? some lipstick? ooo!” endeavoring to smear a touch on his lips.

flinching away but briskly recovering to taste it from her, “you get what i’m saying,” tipping in with a kindhearted, “c’mere.”

oh, what a syruped, cherry-pie, gushing-out-with-love slice of a moment!

afterward, she hums the vocal tremor of zeal before stating, “i’ll have to redo it now…”

ensuing onward to the heartful adventure after the mellow fraction of the sojourn, she fiddles with the collar of the plasticy bottle after she detects the marked kiss prints (she didn’t have the womanly entitlement of doing this as a girl), breaking off the seal and conferring them both the inventive, spiky, pliable ring.

he, on the other hand, chews on the synthetically made cap (he couldn’t do this in europe without tussling and scuffing his tooth on the disposable, recyclable beverage container’s leavings; it’s ineffable that he’s in the land of the free, home of the brave, to have the sovereignty to do such) because he can’t find any “suitable” and “non-american” gum anywhere.

breaking off at a botanical-covered, verdant community garden to hang out in the revitalizing atmosphere, saving the liquid cover for later, they experience being beneath the foliage’s shadow, drawing in a lungful of tree breath and vegetation while being sedentary on the flaky-coated metal chair with twisty designs, cozied into its opposite self—a corroding, crow-blackened table—and watching over a sizable queen bumblebee, like archangels themselves to God’s littlest creations, as she lands on his real-sugar, crispy, cancerous, chemical cocktail, also known as coca-cola.

“she doesn’t like my diet coke…” she trills, partaking in a draught sip instead.

“you’ve just got to live a little, love. even she knows that.” he aims his finger at the feasting bee, who outshines the popstar himself, and the flirtatious belle who stands beside him—the unenlightened honeybee, too imperceptive to the ticket to stardom she now commands, assessing the devouring eyes on her.

while she glowers at him, he evades the talk elsewhere anew. “you and i… we’ll go for lunch down by the river…” taking into account how their tummies are rumbling and how harry wants to go exploring in the celebratedly vast american forests.

with twiggy twigs fracturing underfoot like a pulverized mirror, officially annihilated from a convulsionary tantrum about the fearfulness of an insecurity, walking then matures into steering away into a manifesting dream of his.

traversing past the tapestry of places, she can scarcely make out the texturey, aging, heartlike gate, with whirly spirals more pronounced than his curly curls, dissolving away as they shoot past, as if the ride is a falling star itself.

and now her attention focuses on the pliable, bendy wires, morphing into the same shape; she can only suppose that the macrocosm is channeling for her.

showing up at the pine tree timberlands—not the conventional brochure lies of it being just an austere desert, or the prominent grand canyon—the woody, masculine hint, with embers burning out in the zephyr, adheres to their clothes, denoting them indelibly in their minds for weeks.

the wildlife and flaxen birdies acknowledge them with each step. harry gracelessly takes his american horror story cuddle-ready overlayer off, dragging his ghostly-glacial shirt with it as he traces en route to the watercourse. they set their shoes and his socks aside, along with their outerwear and their not-so-waterproof things, ashore.

the smoothness of the silty texture at the bottom of their feet overstimulates them, as both get in fully clothed and then hold their breath under the warmed-up freshwater, giving each other a kissy-kiss and, in contrast, surfacing to play-fight, which fates them to work up an even vaster appetite, because coke decidedly isn’t “lunch down by the river…”

afterward, with uneven breathing and breathlessly gasping smiles, they elect (the first ever “election” harry ever partakes in!) to go someplace so americanly amazing: a “petrol station” (his words!) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter seven: queen of the gas station!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for both of their perspectives: queen of the gas station - lana del rey ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ here they are, moseying along, saturating the textile travel incliners, with him two days in the same clothes (the costless bath recovers him), and, because there are no deadlines for eloping, they position at a commonplace to commit curbside atrocities.

the delinquent troublemakers are extraordinarily eagle-eyed, spotting what seems to be a slovenly, tootsie small-town whore of some sort, mulling over, “put me in a movie,” like she’s worthy of it—alighting from her run-down sapphire sedan that has been through the definite trenches and is absent of a license plate, giving the vibe that she’s the type to write a notorious convict in prison, someone like ted bundy (what makes her think she’s the exception of anything?)—and loves him…

could’ve sworn she unselfconsciously said:

“hey, bitch! you want a cinnamon stick?”

they always say the most random shit, don’t they?

“i have bloody seen it all…” abstaining himself from breaking out in heehaws; he is just appalled until further notice.

she just seems indifferent because she sees this bullshit in the states every single day.

“i’ll wait in here…” she avouches, not wanting to cross the erratic’s path.

God, i love a compliant boyfriend.

careening inside, with harry’s hairy legs lambencing in the sunbeam, he’s probably missing his biscuits, tea, crumpets, and whatever british whatnots; since he’s so far away from home, he will search high and low to find—at the lowest—a substitute, while the firecracker copies him to set foot inside, her trashy-but-fairy-tale-like savor following her in.

now, with the focus on the pigeons on a whiffy, tackified garbage can—triggering mayhem—keeping her company, with the self-authorship of her mirroring the dirty dove, carping a criticism: “barbarians, i swear…”

it is common knowledge that the infamy of the full moon makes people—and perchance things—crazier (it gives the impression that the advertisement inflatable balloon guy is being affected, too), on the premise that a handful of houseless, sleeping souls, with hair sticking up like insect antennas, are in proximity.

do you remember trying so hard that you’re standing out?

yeah, that’s her and her own detachment, in converse of this absurdity.

“what is taking him so long?” with a headache creeping up on her, she determines to proceed into the americana terminal, scaring the flying rats away as she does.

strolling inside, the unforbearing childhood nostalgia floods over her: a chocolate-blanketed donut and a somewhat decaying, pink-painted donut with consumable gems, evoking the remembrance of the transient look she doled on her plushy puppy last night, deliberating on whether she’s still a girl-child or yet a young woman…

in the meantime, he is too inundated with the task of choosing between ready salted or the cheesy-cheese–seasoned chips (crisps) for his fake-bread sandwich and his engineered orange soda-pop.

“pick your poison,” i’d say.

directly recognizing one another, they collaborate on picking fares.

before this story advances, allow me to remind you:

if you’re going to do something—anything at all—go all-out.

he plucks buttermilk biscuits, a donutella dessert, extruded-polystyrene–textured wafer cookies, and powdered donuts, mumbling, “there’s a million lights, i don’t care if they’re watching…”

she wrests not-so-greek yogurt (we respect a health-conscious queen!), honeycrisp apples, pre-packaged granola, portioned-out fruit, carrot sticks (louis would salute her!), and a sprinkling of marvels for her harry.

plus, the devil-may-care, wild woman duplicates them with her toxic liquor and a cheap pack of cigarettes.

provoking agitation—all because the high school minimum-wage cashier, who’s just hustling for income for her trailer park family and her baby on the way, turns down the purposeless pennies she catapulted at her as payback (ouch! that’s gotta hurt!)

this is their distracting indication—their gateway to flee the stagnant setting!

thank you, heroin heroine!!!~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter eight: “who’s Jehovah?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for her perspective: gods and monsters - lana del rey

recommended song for his perspective: jailhouse rock - elvis presley ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ hastening back and cruising away, and while noshing on their yummies, he labels her as a rabbit, with her only feedback being: “i’m not a minority, harry,” and, “like the italians, are the british just particularly fond of carbohydrates?”

shrugging unbotheredly, he idly devours the empty-calorie halos (how does he ingest that?), and the ghostlike residue around his mouth is sharply evocative of cocaine.

but let’s discuss the scrumptious bombshells she selected for him…

the fizziness drones as she uncaps the paper cup, abundant in a popularly described as a “pharmaceutically aftertasting liquid,” with milky soft serve swirling around, pairing that with a carnation-colored cake-pop—something that makes you want to patriotically yell (i can literally hear the eagle screeches), “God bless america!”

he is confuzzled and doesn’t comprehend the likability—the drink, i mean. he wholly wolfed down the cake-on-a-stick.

“fine… you want a taste of home, i know that.” she brings forth the shoplifted uk staple: cadbury!

tearing apart the purple packaging, lounging it on his right knee, feeding the chalky chocolate to him, and, in due course, it liquefies between her fingers; she coats it on his lips as though it were a lipgloss—veritably the mistreatment of chocolate.

she caringly vocalizes, “they’re not homemade or healthy, but they’re one of your favorites. they’ll do.” (isn’t cocoa a superfood?) with a quieter, “i used to love these…” (she was a chubby bunny. irrefutably, he is right about the “bunny” part…)

he is next seen scarfing it down without the contingency of parole—so nectarous to him.

she is flummoxed: “gosh damn, that was short-lived…”—a momentum lapse: “so uncivilized, coming from someone who’s from a place so civilized.”

shunning her with his sidelong, cursory look elsewhere, “i could say the same for you…”

snapping at him, she glares, “what do you mean by that?”

he expeditiously turns to shove a cocoa square between her teeth to hush her up, which concludes with a wasted choco on the dust-caked floorboard and a slap on his incontinently pinkening cheek, pushing him to pull over to a discontinuance near a Church that wears the guise of veracity, with a robin’s-egg-blue gate and crosses more for decoration, not necessarily worship.

“what was that all about, then?” displeasure in his lexicon, shooting her a fiery-tempered transfix. “that could’ve ended up in a right mess. i was driv—”

sulking, she hurtfully opines an interference: “you’re not even a good boyfriend. what makes you think you would ever be a good husband?”

a sentence that betrays her…

when she disengages out of the horseless carriage, he goes after her as a man is preaching, “Jesus is the Messiah!”—only interposed between her and his umbrage more so, cajoling them with the same rumination: “shouldn’t you be in there, buddy?” and “does this make you and others feel more virtuous?”

“get in.” he admonishes her, upholding the motorcar’s door on her side.

“do you wanna know what my mom said? she said tha—” the lividity of her dictions only stabs him additionally, as she spins back around.

“here we go again! another non-stop, will it ever end?” slamming it closed, he advances over to her, his edginess strengthening his inflection, the weeping moisture welling near his lashes and glimmering downwards.

“can’t believe the words came outta your mouth…” closing the distance between them, he persists on. “you rest everything on these three words, when we both know how she is…”

daintily disentangling the tenderwise filaments away from her facial profile, he dulcifully enunciates, “i’m the first to admit that i’m reckless…” enwrapping her into his fervency-enlacement hug as he pursues, touching each other’s shoulder blades—they bear semblance to angel wings so much. “just tell me what i did, let’s work through it…”

smoothing her keratin threads out, “but your words cut like knives… and i’m tired…” imprinting a benediction of his kiss on her hairline, “so can we do it all over again?”

ere she frames an acknowledgment, an incognizant cult follower proclaims his deceptively Jewish cultspeaks (how do every single one of them overlap?) and ritualistic doctrines in his country accent—overmuch altruistic, or is it all insincerity?

“hello, there! did you guys hear the good news?”

taut stillness…

“Jesus loves you!”

even more awkwardness…

“i’m a Jehovah’s Witness! can i share with ya’ll how the Bible saves?”

he isn’t a quitter, is he?

“who’s ‘Jehovah?’ let me talk to him.” unaccustomed to his european thoughtscape, he is impelled by elemental inquisitiveness… or perhaps Jehovah and his elf, assaying then evangelizing, leave him utterly succorless.

Jehovah vitally necessitates for better scheduling…

and no measure of the amount of years he spent sermoning readied him for such an outcry of wonderment.

pronouncing his preplanned, well-versed, burningly preachy, insular, brainwashing bullcrap, “if only we could!” the lummox releases an adorkable cachinnation. “you see, Jehovah’s name appears in the original hebrew Scriptures—um, it means ‘the existing one.’”

her shepherding post-glimpse at her boyfriend’s mischievous aspect, deflecting him with an illusory interest masquerade: “go on.” ambling beside his dorky-outfitted self into the Kingdom Hall, as he bequeaths her a printout magazine of the watchtower and awake!.

synchronously, harry aggregates their chattels into the misguided simpleton’s outdated, ink-like sound car, with ludicrous loudspeakers and titanic lettering that reads, “Jehovah’s Witnesses!”—the unerring, untraceable anonymity vessel for them.

and ironically, a half-empty cardboard box of marlboro reds cigarettes sits in the cupholder, with a satanic lighter tucked inside.

afterward, he sprints over to them, confiscating the tinkly keys from the witness’s backside pocket and announcing, as he scoops her up bridal-style (he’s practicing) and runs away with her, “Jehovah would want this!”

they ingress into the asininely dogmatic cruise-rider, with her positioned on his lap, him supporting her waist, her kissing his jawline down to his neck as they careen away, overhearing him uglily use profanity and, failing, hurrying after his (not anymore!) comedy car.

on the bright side, i’m just glad it wasn’t nightmarish kenneth copeland or one of his infinitely worse devotees…

in summation, they have the foretold chit-chat we all guessed: “do people really think we need ‘saving from the devil,’ or no?” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter nine: viva las vegas!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for both of their perspectives: viva las vegas - elvis presley ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the semidarkness of twilight assuages, while she is in her last maidenly hour at eighteen years old, with the nineteen-year-old boy who undermined his entire career, to spend their puppy love, for all time, as one.

it oddly seems suspiciously chimerical—but shhh! don’t break the reverie spell just yet!

the catchiness of viva las vegas crackles on the longstanding stereo, spot-on for elvis’s music—it is unmanageable to be mundane in the versatility of vegas, when it smells like villainous decisions, the aftermath of regretfulness, and a dash of phosphorescent colors.

and all over each other, like the lovebirds they are, the cosmos’s synchronicities signify with peculiarities, exemplified by toothpaste on a bristly toothbrush, looking like a cardiac organ on the day they get espoused.

while they dress up, she tousles his ringleted mane, combing it with wholesome, healthful coconut oil, and reverently remarks, “i really love your curly hair.”

down the line, she styles herself a coiffure updo, like mrs. presley herself, sampling the palate of iconhood—just this once. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter ten: “i give you my love forever true…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for her perspective: young and beautiful - lana del rey

recommended song for his perspective: can’t help falling in love - elvis presley ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~punctually heading into the county clerk’s office in their ceremonial raiments, the lifelong attestations of “i do” gradually converge on them.

they detect varied discussions with each progression of a step, united with the air conditioners purring, as they access the detrimentally rundown elevator. the poisonous fluorescent illumination aloft and the ornate pillar wall look like a virginal, boxy cosmetic—you can’t tell if it is styrofoam or not. i’m for real when i say the lunette out front is the fairest paragon and the sole untacky thing in the entirety of the place.

in tandem, two underwhelming signatures imprint the nascent marriage license—no undoing it now—as she lilts, “my handwriting in cursive is so audaciously ugly…” while he averrs, “mine, too…” and she then pecks his cheek in reaction—his favorite kind of autograph from his girl, now soon-to-be wife.

now, traveling down babydoll lane in her inexpensive netting screen and his ordinary bowtie, to—her suggestion—the graceland wedding chapel, where an elvis impersonator marries them off.

to harry, he is just an entertainer in the same profession as him and a man he lionizes, insofar as the girl of my best friend led the way for him as a little boy.

to her, elvis is the embodiment of american passion and a catalyst for adolescent girls to unearth a soulful element within themselves.

making an entrance, charismatic elvis, with his rockabilly self, overdone ensemble, and blue suede shoes—or brendan paul, the actor—nimbly clocks the priscilla reference and glam, musing, “well, well… would you look at that?” adoring her like she were, in another timeline, his wife alone. instead, he consults her appropriately with a “what song would you like, baby?”

“devil in disguise…” she says, wordlessly replicating the guileless appraisal fourteen-year-old cilla supplied him during the third season—the harvest season in 1959, at the precipice of having her innocence won by him.

claiming her father’s locale by walking her down the aisle himself as the father-substitute, he croons like the crooner he is: ♫ “you look like an angel… walk like an angel… talk like an angel… but i got wise… you’re the devil in disguise!” ♫

steely, appraising harry as he repeats after him, “i promise to love you tender, love you sweet, never let you go, and to not act like a hound dog.”

descrying her now, she recapitulates, “i’ll be your baby, your all shook up forevermore, and to never leave you crying in a heartbreak hotel.”

reciting their own vows, which they forged themselves, they seal their “i do” assurances, the groom unveiling her to kiss his bride.

it is only instinctual when he speaks his pronouncement: “wish i could freeze this moment in a frame and stay like this. i’ll put this day back on replay and keep reliving it…”

as elvis pours forth, ♫ “wise men say, ‘only fools rush in,’ but i can’t help falling in love with you… take my hand… take my whole life, too…” ♫

and rocks out with, ♫ “Lord Almighty, i feel my temperature risin’! …your kisses lift me higher… like a sweet song of a choir…” ♫

topping it all off with the famous-as-ever: “thank ya, thank ya very much!”

they take and retrieve their captured moments—and yes, they are in the replica of elvis’s matchless pink cadillac—with her looking deathlessly lasting, like she can exist in any decade and belong.

fast-forwarding to them picking up their locally made celebration cake at a grocery store, she schemes an astonishment, safeguarded in her whimsical lady-bag, with a solo, twiggy dude behind the counter whose praying body calls for the cake more than them, piling up the triple amount of fondant in spite of blissful couples, luring her to communicate: “i didn’t order a side of disrespect with the cake…”

and categorically defraying for food this time—because the totality of everything in sin city is cost-effective—they check out with the unintimidating, dual-tiered masterpiece, earth-grown lemons, and disposable utensils, in which, irrespective of what it is made of and the surroundings, he uses it so decorously.

she can never adjust to that.

dashing into the car courtyard, they sit on the curb to unbox their well-away-from-daisy-fresh frosted feast: the asymmetrical heart shape, patchy core color of the icing, decadence of the buttercream, edible pearls, overindulgent, infelicitous, plastic-paste venetian-rubescent roses with hard-to-miss neon-green leaves ivying the corners, and electric-flamingo dollops delineating around the apex and base—more ran-through and trampy than her parents’ promiscuous pasts.

extricating the stifled item, likening them—so treacly, openhearted—highlighting the boy and girl by the engraving, “i give you my love forever true…,” she equates, “that’s you and that’s me!” crowning the centerpiece on the cakiest cake to have ever caked, the patina indicating that it is elder to them in lifespan.

their rosaceous-roseate flushiness is infectious as they dig in, halving lemony lemons to compress for tartness, drowning the sugared sculpture in acidity and humanly lachrymals, eating away at their sunshiny feelings, featuring the sweetmeal as they cause a cake-smearing disaster—mutually—on one another’s faces.

following up, the tenderhearted twain pass up the malformed, munched-on cake, retrace back to the jokester’s convertible, and lick the ambrosial residue off their fingers and the figurine, her proclamation enriching the juncture: “i became a runaway with you, harry…”~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter eleven: mr. and mrs. no curfew, no consequences!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for her perspective: honeymoon - lana del rey

recommended song for his perspective: forever young (unreleased) - one direction ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ for those whose minds arise with speculation, just know that, with the bonus of the totality of all goods in the infamous nevada city being affordable, he buys her a second-hand, scratched-up, designer tiffany object-to-forever, with a bundle of rosette blooms, and himself a minimalist band—no more need for that cheaply made, professed loop anymore.

proceeding on!

skimming past the all-you-can-eat buffet leeyum eats, the boys endow the impression that they harbor harry in their very thoughts constantly.

suspending at the madame tussaud’s museum for marriagement merriment, abutting near a voracious diner and an elephantine, outré sensuality shop in nearness, they are impatient to take documentation of their martial day with the wax-made one direction members as their guests to congratulate them.

post after the frolicsome affair, wanting a follow-up with a round two of a sugar fix, they opt for the freakiest freakshake date comprehensible next door.

penetrating into the building, the remissful waiter, who has the mustache of a frenchy croissant, seats and hosts them and, with love in the air, they order the pinkest shake—the one with vanillay cuppy-cakies atop like gentlemen’s hats, strawberries-and-meringue swirly lollipops, whipped cream almost as whipped as he is for her, marshmallow fluff around the ridges as glue for cupid’s curve funfetti, and the lactic, milklike fragaria-rosaceae fruit frost blended into a milkshake—as the king of rock ‘n’ roll himself grooves from the speakers while they sip it through a shared swirly-barber-pole straw.

thereupon, they head out foraging on a supermarket hunt for all kinds of goodies for a bargain, pushing her in the shopping cart as they browse around for nature-led produce, though she compromises so that he can have his addictive, government-approved provisions.

and sure, you may have some uncertainty about them booking themselves to be lawfully arrested by police enforcement, granted the offenses, but who in their right mind accuses a holistic four-wheeled machine-car? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter twelve: made love on motel sheets…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for her perspective: every man gets his wish (unreleased) - lana del rey

recommended song for his perspective: little things - one direction ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ that elvis ceremony cost a fortune for them, so now they’re both stuck with an uncanny motel…

you may get shot, but that is irrelevant—it’s less than fifty bucks!

she squeals in euphoria, indicating the pinkest motorist inn in existence: “that one over there is nice!”

believe her, because she’s a certified and qualified romanticist.

there are about a dozen camellia-blossom walls separating the balconies, yet only one misfit is sky-blue, and two divided windows show denizens who are strangers to each other, airing the same channel.

to put it cleanly, it has the similarity of the bets of a girl-wanting, gender-reveal party.

undoing his blazer in the car, exposing his simplest raven-sable shirt, she scoots astride him, helping him remove his collar bow and set it aside next to the tobacco rolls and devilish igniter, while the firmament’s dolor percusses on the surface of the stupid car.

they lip-lock, hearts being made in the center of their mouths, the kissable girl doodling his tattooed arms with her fingernails as his hands arch over her midriff, while he smudges her lipstick more, breaking the kiss altogether after, breath-taken: “you have kisses like cream, my love.”

she chitters with puffing laughter. “well, you kiss like a virgin.” her fingers tactilely skate on his rouge-laced cheeks.

skin-to-skin, touch-to-touch, heart-to-heart.

he enshields her in the physical; she anchors him in the spiritual.

ensuing, he perforce, by tradition, carries her inside. the heart with a fishy in the middle on the passage wall hails them, imbuing them with the iconography of the symbolance: “the decorator is probably a fish parent… or must really like fish.”

espying the quintessential transient refuge’s mattress, the mottled floorcloth, and the television that paradoxically doesn’t work… it’s just not weddingly-honeymoonish… but they make the moment!

moment-skipping ahead!

they’re all dewy-fresh and steam-scented from the shower, already offloaded their appurtenances, and in pajamas. and, since the coast is clear, she infiltrates the cottage-cheese-ceiling and lilliputian-pane restroom with her accoutrements to apply her lipliner and other cosmetics for a more sultry, petulant look, then dresses in her sheer and skimpy lingerie with compatible undergarments.

angelically teetering to where he is on the bedset, while he is harmony-calling his six-string with a plectrum, she initiates first to dally him in a turquoise, bosomy, polyester trystwear that is many cup sizes too huge for her—the kind of act she seasoned in her boudoir.

♫ “babe, you can see that i’m danger… glamorous, but i’m deranged, yeah…” ♫ persevering on, ♫ “i said it really nicely, so can you be my savior?” ♫ she melodizes, procuring his guitar pick from his grasp to put in between her baby-breast-cakes, the sensuousness infecting her call: “you’re kinda outta luck…”

her little girl self wouldn’t have done this…

would she be dismayed?

is all childlikeness misplaced?

are her celestial guardians chagrined by her?

can’t you see the toxicity of purification?

“oopsies! what are you going to do now?” perching opposite him, she captures his left wrist, performing to play with his fingers when, in reality, she just wants to press his artery to verify if it’s throbbingly pulsing for her, low-voicing as she does so: “your body is saying everything, i don’t have to read your mind…”

“oh, how will i ever get it back, especially from my all-time favourite guard?” he shrouds in antiphrasis, reposing his music-maker on the velour-feeling flooring with his right hand and languishing on his core, transfiguring into a deer in headlights for his sweetie-pie.

with the preciousness of the rarity of being chaotically cute, she ribs him by whirling her ankle in his face, her complementary rubescent toenails tailing his flushed ’n’ flurried mien, jestfully taunting, “nya-nya-nya…” then acquiring a schoolish sharpie from the nightstand, furling her fingers around the permanent marker to write “xx” on his left cheek, kissing it as a bullseye; then she pecks his lips, recasting him into a dizzyingly pretty boy.

timorous to ensnare her body, he tinkers with the peeping charm of her bra, reminiscent of a feline, expressing, “you’re my girl almighty…” and, coming after, “if this room was burnin’, i wouldn’t even notice…”

rejoining him, she says, “i could make you stay like this, here, forever…”

“and i’d never leave…” he admits (he’s not a literary meteor), confessing his stockholm syndrome shamelessly.

time lengthens like lukewarm taffy, a turtle-paced continuum, as they please and peal under the bedspread…

i’ll entrust it to you and your judgment to determine what happens this nocturne… ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter thirteen: sick day at bay…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for her perspective: cherry blossom - lana del rey

recommended song for his perspective: love me tender - elvis presley ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~avian birdsongs, sunbeams filtering through the vinyl blinds, the roasted bouquet of coffee beans—what a honeymoonly spectacle to wake up to!

until you see your pumpkin-muffin unwellfully woozy…

preparing ablutions and switching her wear, she puts on a sooten, bat-winged, slouchy long-sleeve with a corresponding bodycon skirt, a contradistinct cyan-and-argent pendant, aligned thigh-high boots, and a messy bun, coalescing it all; then, she fixes a sustaining morning meal with whatever is in the kitchenette: unadulterated cassia cereal integrally embracing almond milk, sun-spun succulent blueberries, not-so-healthy sumptuous chocolate chips for his sweet tooth, an accompaniment of honey-and-bee-pollen-topped pared fruits, mini muffins from a box, and auroral citrus orange juice in a tumbler.

raising the shades and arranging the breakfasty repast on the mattress, she breezily tickles his exposed neck to waken him.

“angel?” half-asleep, congested, and in delirium, he dazedly undertones, churning to consciousness as he does so.

poor thing… bless his heart!

“nooo, is my lovey sick?” she complains, planting a kissy-kiss on his forehead to monitor his temperature.

i reckon the underlying cause of his illness is the polluted undercurrent of the oasis of wrongdoing that ails him.

but let’s not be conspiracy theorists quite yet… even though our “theories” always come to light as truthfulness, eventually…

with him all sniffly and more indisposed than when he was in prominence in the limelight, she visits the shops for electrolyte fluids, medicine, and cushy tissues. and, when she reappears outside the guestroom—like an angel paying benevolence for a lacerated or gravely ill man—she kisses the viewway to attract his awareness, embossing it with her marking stamp.

when she ministers him like he’s her own baby, she reads the hardcover she packed and insists he drinks the lambent-barbie one because, in her reasonable mind, “it’s pink and pretty; therefore, it’s better for you!”

and him, personifying all the other operatically histrionic, off-color men, he is determined to show his gratefulness: “i don’t want to give this sickness to you, but just think that i’m giving you the biggest kiss right now…”

and to sweeten the pie, her moonly menstrual cycle kindles in the recesses of her; she is surrenderingly unprepared, shouting from the lavatory, “harry! can you please go out to get me sanitary pads?!” and he provides that—with a surplus of trimmings, even bearing his illness—obediently giving the rejoinder: “sure thing, love.”

also, unfailingly, phrasing cadence of care: “you don’t know you’re beautiful…” and “you’re perfect to me…” while she’s in this ruffled period, even as she rebukes him with heightened feminine insecurity, curled outdoors in a monobloc chair by the molten, outflowing exhaust of the ac for her cramps: “how would you even know what ‘beautiful’ looks like, huh? who all have you been looking at?”

there’s no way you can change the rolling tide…~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter fourteen: husbands are overrated!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for both of their perspectives: please don’t stop loving me - elvis presley ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ it’s almost like the expanse of all-knowing preserves him from a womanish fit, with the backing of the rayless sunshine—apart from a star-touched modicum of daylight dispersing a prism of chromas into her eyes.

speculating where the rest of the sustenances are, just form a mental representation of the terror she withstood when she saw her browning malus domestica in the backseat, when all she coveted was a snappy, sapid apple.

biting into it, let it be said, it tastes like God’s green earth… no wonder she ruminated that “boyfriends are overrated.” now, i figure husbands are, too.

biting into it, let it be said, it tastes like God’s green earth… no wonder she ruminated that “boyfriends are overrated.” now, i figure husbands are, too.

and since she’s a beginner at being a wife, she is floundering against upbraiding him while he is faintish.

you can paint a flower any colorant, but will it continually be what it is to begin with? or does it disregard who it is originally, even by the perceivers?

but don’t misread me…

husbands are overrated, but hers is perfect!~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

chapter fifteen: no plans, just driving on a road that ends, but we never will!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~recommended song for her perspective: ride - lana del rey

recommended song for his perspective: burning love - elvis presley ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the riveting sentimentality of departure from their matrimonial locale plagues them with heavy-heartedness as they amass their property for…

no plans, just driving!

purloining one of the jehovah’s witness’s smokes and balancing it betwixt his teeth, he induces her to appropriate it and its boxed domicile and family, throwing it all out of the escalating conveyance-car, bringing her to a fluster and to slice through her agitation from when they were causing trouble up in hotel rooms… you know, he says, “i don’t want to wash away the night before…”—a loveable, sayable treat, with her sheepish saying being, “me neither…”

and i’m unconcerned with the tragic truth of the escapist mindset, or the downstream of wedlock repentance, purveying that the culinary crime of a cake survives all four revolving seasons, in addition to her passioned, heartfire-fleck of ardor embroidering the glassworker’s vitreous lightway—just like their love, forever true. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ do you guys want a part two? a fic of either louis, niall, zayn, or liam? a dunkirk harry x frat boy harry x long haired harry version? just ask, and i’ll deliver! 🧁💍

author’s note: if only this were my life right now, and harry were my valentine!!! but to make me feel better… pretty please (with extra cherries on top!) heart and reblog if you’d run away with harry, too! tysm for reading!

p.s. happy valentine’s day!!! i hope you loved, loved, loved this valentine’s special!!! 🏹💘