My partner and I have been together for over seven years now, but we endured the first two in a long-distance relationship. Previously, we laid terrified side by side in dark dorm rooms on a precipice. We slowly admitted that our springtime fling had grown into the greatest thing that had ever happened to us.
There are many reasons I’m grateful we found each other when we did, including the ease of communication. Whenever the smartphone flush against my thigh sounded it’s staccato vibrations, I felt electrified. The signal sent a branching surge up my body like an inverted lightning bolt. My heart swelled, my brain ignited, and I could feel her hand in mine.
We did what we could to ease the longing. We undressed ourselves on the other side of buffering Skype calls. Our text messages read like clumsy erotica. Every evening was a chance to hear each other’s voice, if only for a quick “Good night”.
Don Draper rose from his chair and surveyed the room through coils of cigarette smoke. The conference table was strewn with half-eaten sandwiches and a sweating pitcher of tomato juice impaled by a celery stalk breaching the surface like the mast of a shipwreck. Don buttoned his jacket and inhaled sharply.
“Mr. Peanut is an icon,” said Don, “and icons can go one of two ways; they can remain cold and unchanging, before, finally, slipping into yesterday’s news; or, if they’re brave enough, they can adapt into something greater and malleable, like hot steel, bending but never breaking, contorting into new and attractive shapes for generations.”
This story was originally published in issue #16 of Unwinnable’s Exploits. If you want to support more writing like this, consider subscribing!
The staccato violins rise, the camera cuts wildly between flustered red faces, and Noel Fielding is buzzing around the tent dressed as a bumble bee. Every round of The Great British Baking Show ends with a montage of finishing touches on a ciabatta loaf, genoise sponge, or the lime-green dome of a princess cake before the contestants perilously tiptoe their creations to a pair of grim-faced judges. The entries are sampled, a verdict is reached, and then this thing, this object of hard work and meticulous planning and research, is disappeared to be presumably passed around the cast and crew before being spirited to a confectionery compost pile.