Bomb Threats

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Love is a terrorist threat, a bombshell fully armed, detonator prepared and beautiful. Love is Rich. Rich is throughout the city nights and meet-my-parent’s afternoons. With charismatic grins and likeable laughs, he prepares the bomb, secretly disguised as my heart. Unknowingly, I walked out the doors of my high school, the world my storybook, fresh, clean white pages, ready to meet my pen. Unknowingly, I bought the triple-shot soy mocha latte at the unusual coffee shop, new to my attendance. Unknowingly, I stumbled upon a man with an acoustic guitar and a voice like chocolate, rich and smooth.

“Rich.” He said, reaching his tanned sculpted hand from the coffee shop stage. “You’re new here.”

I blushed, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind my ear and crossing my right leather boot over my left. Smiling, I gave his hand a firm, quick squeeze,

“Nice to meet you, Rich.” I took a step back, meeting a small chair made to match the adjoining mosaic-tiled table. Placing my coffee on the tabletop, I nestled my head in my hand, smiled with my eyes, bit my bottom lip, and watched him continue to play. As he played, my pen began to write on the blank pages of my life, detailing every millimeter of Rich’s heavenly body. I was mesmerized, fixated on a man in a Lucky Brand Tee, dirty Levi jeans, a scruffy 5 o’clock shadow, and dirty brown eyes. He played the guitar as if it was his lover, his secret mistress in a steamy, sensual affair. With every sip of my latte, my emotions peeked, powering the drive that dripped from my ears as they filled with his sounds. His every word captured me, his every movement lifted me, and his touch launched my soul from this atmosphere. I knew not of that touch, but I imagined its impact on me, the feelings it would arouse. Rich’s touch would find a place in my life, Rich would become mine.


Hate is a terrorist threat, a little girl in her Sunday best, smiling at her grandmother. Hate is Rich, a man so close to heaven, hate never could reach.

“Rich,” I said, whispering in a low, steady voice as my lips found his cheek. “You’re new here.”

At that, he moved, opening his eyes to greet my face. He took my hand from resting on the bed, and kissed it, sweetly and deeply. The feelings rushed again, the powerful passion from his gentle touch.

“Here, triple-shot latte.” I handed the warm, tan cup to him as he hit the button that raises the bed. The bed to his left was now empty, a grandmother’s memories gathered in one brown box, awaiting to be taken home. I watched him drink, his lips meeting the opening in the cup, his eyes determined on the roasted flavor reminiscing on his tongue. I was mesmerized, fixated on a man in a blue hospital gown, a scruffy 5 o’clock shadow, and a head, balder than a glorious eagle. I set my coffee down on the table by his bed, nestled my head in my hands, and stared at his everything. I knew this would not happen much longer, the mesmerizing of the first man I had truly loved. But hand in hand, we watched each other, never speaking a single word.


The pen of my life writes today, remembering the glory and pain of that man’s bringing. I touch my chest, running my fingers across the battle scar from which I acquired. The detonator was pressed that day in the hospital, exploding my soul into a million, microscopic pieces. Men and women filed into the white room with their generic words and cold voices, the explosion was nothing to them. They felt no impact, no pain or damage. Bombs exploded everyday, some inside little girls in their Sunday best, some inside of lovesick teenage girls. Solemn are the days in my memory of the coffee shop with every passionate sip of my soy latte. Sometimes I stand in the back behind the crowd and watch him play, moving my cardigan to hide the scar, pretending I do not see him building yet another bomb.





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