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Where to begin? The beginning of the beginning of a story is never really the beginning of the story. The ending of the ending of the story is by no means the end of the story. Beginnings, middles, and endings are like ones memory of one's own birth. It will never be quite accurate. How do you know what are your own rambling remerberings and what are the brambled ramblings of others; mere here say or documented facts?


Once upon a time there was a man that was scarcely out of the puppy fat youth. Many, many moons ago, there was a man, his lover, born with the misfortune of birth that allowed for the knack for being in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time, whom happened, for just this once, upon exactly the right place at exactly the right time. There were, once upon a time, ghosts.


They met in the most insignifagant of manners. It doesn't matter the circunstances. What does matter is that the wheels of fate deemed them worth enough to test the strength of their love, almost at the moment of its conception, and set in motion the means for their enveitable break-up.


That means ended up being the youths own flesh and blood. His twin brother....




Terry Owens cracked his knuckles, stretched, and began to settling down for a night of writing. He took a sip of his coffee and found the mug to be empty. The neighborhood cat, a poor silver and black thing, was scratching at the window ledge for his weekly samplings of Terry's leftovers. Someone was knocking on the door. He saved his work, and went to answer the door.


"Can I use your microwave? The wiring in my flat is wonky and Bob said he'd get it fixed and in the mean time I need to warm some milk for my son," the women from apartment 1D asked in a flush.


"Yeah, sure," Terry said letting her into the flat. "15 seconds should be hot enough. It gets hot pretty fast." When 1D had gone, Terry went about fixing more coffee. While he waited he opened the window and let the cat in along with a brisk shock of late December air. Looking out of the window, Terry couldn't help noticing the cow heavy moon with the stain of red on it. "How does that saying about blood on the moon go again," he said more to himself that to the cat. She answered as cats are acustomed to answer.


It was while the cat ate that Terry realized that he had not yet ate. Looking in the cabinet for a spell he decided on a whole wheat penne pepperino. After he had had his full, and realized how long and taxing the meeting with his vanilla publicist had been, he decided on a long hot bath. As he slipped into the oasis of hot water he forgot that blood on the moon spells dire trouble.




It was three short sharp raps on the door followed by an insatiable silence that brought Terry out from underneath the rocky safe haven a sea salt and chamomile soak in a tepid bath, a wash cloth weighing down firmly on his chest. There was no boubt in his mind as to the healing power of a hot bath and towel pressed firmly to ones chest. His auburn hair rested languidly atop the water as gay lads do in summer days so stickily hot that the crickets scarcely chirp, and the nightingales refuse to even whisper a half-note. With the knock came the tsunami of the days' tasks, writing yet to be penned, and the flood of questions. With a sigh Terry got out of the tub, briskly dried off, wrapped himself in a fresh terry cloth robe, and went to the door.


With the aid of the florescent yellow lighting emanating from the far right he could see that the person at the door was an inch or so taller than he, and in his mid to late thirties. He was dressed in a red trench coat, fastened to the top most button that came to a rest above the tops of his Prada boots, which were caked in a fine layer of brown-grey snow. He had red leather gloves choaked in his left hand. A red knit barrette partially masked a mesh of blond hair that fell shy of resting on his shoulders.


Terry could had sworn he smelt the faintest trace of May Roses and Irises. If his nose was not mistaken, he smelt notes of Clary Sage, Lavender, Patchouli, Sandalwood, Amber, Honey, Rockrose and some kind of Spice. The man in the hall was wearing Chanel number 19 with an undertone of Antaeus cologne. He didn't need to see his face to know that that man in the hall was his ex- boyfriend and brother-n-law, Lothario Matthews.


"What's the T, Matthews," Terry barked light-heartedly from behind the safety of the door.


"Look, girl," Lothario said in his effeminate tenor. He said girl the way some people say hun. "Can we talk inside. It's colder than that one Christmas in Paris out here."


"Give me one reason to open the door, and I might just let you back in."


"You want me to want to change your mind, is that it, Mr. Chapman?"


"And Billie said you weren't going to amount to a hill of beans in an ant’s world. I guess mummy dearest was wrong."


"I love you Terry."


"I spoke too soon."


"C'mon Tee. Nothing happened between Lance and I."


"So, what you are saying is that what I walked in on was nothing. Although, I never had Lance pegged as a bottom."


"Oh, c'mon Terry. It was just sex. It meant nothing, less than nothing."


"Oh my god! You fuck my brother, and you call that nothing. Hell, those leprechauns hit you on the head with their shaleile sticks one too many times," Terry blurted bluntly.


"Look, Tee. I'm sorry. If I'd have known that you'd be this angry after a year apart I never would have slept with Lance."


"You know I'm not angry. I'm not bitter. I'm mad as hell."


"C'mon, Tee."


"Casse-toi! If you say c'mon one more fucking time I swear to the god above I will come through that door and strangle your ass and then, bring you back so that I can do it all over again."


"C'mon," Lothario cooed playfully.


"Ok," Terry snarled hotly as he flung open the door, "Get your cool aid man looking ass in her before that old noisy bitch across the hall calls the cops. Take those boots off. If you get mud on my carpets I'll kill you and this time I mean it."


"Could I get the grand tour or is that asking too much," Lothario asked as he removed his boots at the front door. Lothario surveyed the flat before him in one swift motion with his detail-trained eyes. What he saw before him he liked. Terry's parlour consisted of a posh cream-coloured leather love seat with wrap-a-round sofa, and matching arm chair placed in a semi-circle about an glass coffee table resting on a grey marble block, facing the 52-inch flat screen television framed by an faux-mahogany entertainment center. White shag carpet ran the length of the room which was lit from the right by the red, pink, violet, and brown pot-pourri of light from the setting sun streaming in from double bay windows. "Wish I'd brought my cannon."


"So, um... did my big bro give you the boot or what?"


"Like I said, I love you. That's why I called it off with Lance. I want to make us work, Tee."


"You're about a year and a marriage too late with those words."


"I'm sorry."


"I really am getting quite tired of you saying that," Terry said with a sigh.


"Lol," Lothario said with a laugh.


"What's so blooming funny, mate."


"I think that was the first word I said to you was sorry."


"Second word, actually. If memory serves me right, the first words you said to me was what, sorry."


"It was raining, it was."


"Strike two, mon ami. It was as sunny as days come."


"If you say so, mon petite lapin."

"I do. You know you know how good my memory is. And you lost the right to call me that."


"As trained as my eye," Lothario muttered as he ignored the last part of Terry's comment.


"Innit though."


"Now, are you going to tell me the story or do I have to beg?"


"Let us see where to begin? As my memory serves me, there were no storm-grey clouds in the sky on that day I first met you, only joyous pallid ones that pirouetted about to the beating of their own drums whilst men gaze up at them in wondrous splendour pondering their own frail moralities. The succulent perfume of fresh cut grass their bellies full to bursting with the chilled liquor of dew wafted to my nose felling me to the brim with bitter-sweet memories of nostalgic days from my youth. I recalled those long ago days when my cousin was six and I five, we would roll down the slope of Murdock Hill. The grass would stain our lily-white tee shirt kelly and neon green. We did not care then, that our mothers would be furious and emptily threaten to ground us if we did it again, which we would at every chance we were afforded. We were kids being kids and as such we cared little for consequence and volumes for momentary rhapsodic euphoria."


"What does you smelling grass have to do with us meeting?"


"Whos telling this story," Terry mutterd hotly as he raised his left eyebrow pointedly.


"You are."


"Right you are. Now, I'm going to tell this story the way I remember it. now, where was I?"


"You were having an aimless flashback brought on by the smell of grass."


"Ah, right you are. The smell of fresh cut grass sent me on a trip down memory lane which was interrupted by the rich pot-pourri of grunts, snorts, moans, abrupt shoving ensuing from the horde of high schoolers, and sharp screeching of breaks form the purring achromatic bus jarred me from thinking of idle things done in earlier days, as a child awoken from a night-terror by fear in the mid-night hour. I was a lioness; my senses were of in a state qui vive. I was prone to pounce at the next available opportunity. I waited, ever so restlessly. I spot my chance. I rendered self to the mercies of the mob and I was afforded entrance into the metallic jungle to fend for a place to rest off my weary feet for a few fleeting seconds earthly bliss.


I surveyed the buffet before my eyes in one swift motion noting the couple four seats in a dishevelled state of heavy petting-"


"-Yeah, That was Kevin and Rosa," Lothario said a matter-of-fact manner. Terry crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes and puckered his lips into an icy sneer. "Sorry, T. Continue."


"I saw around me a couple making out, a voguish gaggle of giggling dames in the back to the right in the midst of some fervid discussion of the latest celebrity gossips, the girl to the far left of the flock dawned in her coal-black frock and rude-cut jeans tucked away in her makeshift melodic oasis. That was when it happened. My breath froze half way down; my virgin heart went into palpitations; Time had stopped still as death. Everything faded to black.


"Is this seat taken, I said to you -"


"- And I said What, sorry, Lothario chimed in- "


"- While you removed your ear-phones," Terry said a tinny bit of excitement infused in his voice. And I said Can I sit here?


Sure, you said playfully as you moved your things for me. Once I was nestled in you asked me if I wanted some chips-"


"You mean French fries, right?"


"Does a cow say moo?"


"Stupid question. Go on."


"Anyways, even then your cologne had been intoxicating to me, granted I've always had a weak spot for Chanel. You had me with your outfit which consisted of: Levi slim trucker jacket, John Varvtos sleeveless hoodie, Theory Elias sweater, G-Star Sailor Lumber original denim jeans, and Chuck Taylor Hi sneakers. I was so feeling your vibe. I was just too shy to say anything, so I went about it the subtle manner by asking what you were listening to."


"Take Me or Leave Me from Rent. Whanna listen," Lothario said excited that he actually remembered.


"Sure, I had said as I moved ever so closer to you, and took other ear-phone. The heat from your body against mine was heaven for me. In fact, all I asked you for while we were an item was to be held, which hasn't happened yet, I might add." Terry crossed his arm and pouted his lips, like a pleading teen, mockingly.


"We can always remedy that, mate."


"Beg your pardon." Terry shifted from pouting to accusing in a spilt-second.


"I'm perfectly willing to hold you right now, mon cœur qui bat."


"How very dare you," Terry said in a spot on impersonation of that Catherine Tate character.


"It's not like I'm asking you to let me park my bike up your dirt track."


"What a fucking liberty."


"What?" Lothario scratched his head perplexedly.


"Do you want the grand tour or not?"

"Only if you really want to."


"Oy, you dirty wanker. Keep that in your knickers, you."


"Jokes on you, mate. I haven't any on."


"I so did not need to know that, Jay."


"So, how about that tour?"


"Right, here we go. This is my living room, obviously. Through the first door over there on that right is the kitchen, the second the diningroom."


"Ooh. Where's the bedroom?"


"Nowhere you'll get at, mate." The silence between them grow from the floorboards of their mutual unease, like morning glories, and forced Terry to break that insatiable quiteness. "How about a drink," Terry muttered with a sigh.


"That's thinking in the right direction," Lothario muttered as he when an sat on the sofa with a loud dud. Terry all but ran into the kitchen and returned moments later with two glasses and a bottle of gin.


"What will we taost to. We always toast on the first drink," Lothario cooed thoughtfully as he took the almost over flowing glass from Terry.


"To Paris," Terry muttered half-heartedly as he poured himself a glass with shakey hands.


"To Paris," Lothario parroted coyly. "We fell in love in Paris," he muttered in a voice that on anyone else would have sounded like a prayer.


"We fell out of love in Paris," Terry muttered wistfully as he swollowed the contents of his glass in one gulp and refilled his glass.


"You can't mean that," Lothario muttered hotly as he sipped his drink.


"Oh, it's truely meant. My mind quit loving you in Paris. My soul fell out with love in Paris," Terry muttered in a morose tone. Then, he smilled. Wiether it was from the gin or have Lothario near him, he didn't know or care. From the back of his mind came a voice, that grew softer with every sip of his drink. It told him that this was a bad idea; that Lothario had never said that he was devoriced from Lee. Terry found himself not caring one way of the other. "But, my heart is still, will always be, yours," he muttered after what seemed like years but was only a few seconds of percious scilence.


"If that offer still stands, I'll..." Lothario muttered before falling silent and not being able to finish his sentance.


"What offer," Terry muttered. He knew what Lothario wass getting at. He just wanted to hear him say it aloud.


"If you still want me to ... I'll, I'll take you in my arms," Lothario muttered like a love sick teenager.


"Ok,' Terry muttered as he when around the table and grabbed Lothario's hand.




Terry woke four hours later reeling from the extacy of sex and the gaity of gin. How long has it been since I last felt the warm touch of a man; the soft, sensual caress of my body pressed to another he thought as he stood in front of the bay windows in his bedroom, their juices still clinging to his legs. Lothario was still asleep in the king sized wrought-iron and chased-copper bed, which gleamed like Cupids' gilded arrow in the incandescent light cast from the street lights that flooded the darkened room. The rain conversed with the windowpane like far too many voices speaking all at once. Memories of Paris danced before his eyes with more fervour the more he fought them.


"Do you remember Paris," Lothario said, his voice still heavy with the last ramblings of sleep. He reached over to the davenport next to the bed, and grabbed his coat. Searching in the inside breast pocket he produced a canister of tobacco to with he proceed to make a cigerette with the generous wad he had taken form it.


"Paris is nothing more than a dirty city with florescent lights," Terry said bitterly as he walked over to the bed and took the cigerette from Lothario and lit it.


"You know that was when I first knew that I was truely in love with you," Lothario muttered as he took the cigerette from Terry.


"Love is a messy affair, " Terry said as he exhaled a plume of smoke. "If you're not careful, the so called love of your life can and may fuck you over and leave you to sort out the rags that are your life and stitch together some semblance of a life."


"I'm Sorry."


"-" Three short urgent raps followed by three more cut off Terry's retort. He wrapped himself in a used silken robe and briskly cleaned himself up.


"Get dressed, now," Terry barked at Lothario. He tossed Lothario his shirt, and headed for the door.


"What are you doing here Lance," Terry asked as he opened the door. He knew, clear as a sunny day in LA is hot, that he'd just committed adultery.


"Have you seen that no good ass husband of mine,Terry," Lance said stumbling over his feet and slurring his words as he proceeded to the sofa with Terry's assistance.


"Terry," Lothario said as he made his way into the living room "What's all the racket?"


"So, my brother, my own flesh and blood, is fucking my husband behind my back?"


"Lee, it's not like that," Lothario said tucking the silk spread around his waist.


"I should have known you'd go back to my goddamned sainted brother."


"Lee you're drunk. Why don't you lay down and go to sleep, and we can discuss this like adults in the morning." Lothario sat in the arm chair with a grunt.


"I should put you six feet under, you whore." Lance grabbed the empty bottle of Tanquera gin and was fixing to chuck it at Lothario. Terry grabbed the bottle from him.


"C'mon Lance," Terry said as he lifted him up from the sofa, and lead him to the bedroom. As they passed Lothario Lance took a swing at him. Terry intercepted the punch and placed Lance in the bed. "What a mess this all is," Terry thought to himself as he gathered Lothario's clothes and returned to him in the living room.


"I don't care where the hell you go, but, you need to get dressed and get the hell out of here," Terry said as he handed Lothario his things.


"But, Tee-"


"Non! You know how Lee is when he's drunk. Just leave I'll deal with this," Terry muttered in a hot clipped voice. Lothario was slow in his dressing as if taking his time would give him more time with Terry who was miles away at that point.


"You fucking bastard," Lance said as he charged into the room. Terry stepped in to intervene and was pushed out of the way hitting his head on the wall. As he hit the ground a trail of crimson crawled down the wall. Lothario fell over backwards in an attempt to getaway from Lance, knocking over the bottle, shattering it. As he pulled the bottle out of his back Lance came lunging at him reaching for his throat.




Terry awoke to a quite house. Lothario was gone. Lance was encircled by carmine. Then, came a banging on the door followed by it being shattered. Terry blackedout. When he came to the paramedic hovered over him attentively, flashing a bright white smile, a hand lingering on his shoulder a second longer than necessary. Then, the detective's assault of questions. "What a mess I got himself into. What a messy affair love is. My only family dead on my parlour floor at the hand of our former lover. What a fucking mess," he thought as the coroner and the cops left him to his own macabre thoughts and a silence like a black hole. It didn't last. Mrs. Phillips from across the hall came in with the prying questions. She was real life Miss Marple, but in spite of the questions and accusations he was glad for the company. All the while, in the back of his mind, there was the steady thought of the bloody moon.


In the end, there was only the paramedic and Terry left. "Can I help you," Terry said to the paramedic as he searched his pockets in vain for a cigarette. "Do you have any cigarettes?"


The paramedic flashed a white toothed grin, and ocean blue eyes gleemed as he searched his left breast pocket, and produced a pack of Yves Saint Laurent 100s tapped two out and put them to his lips. He lit them and handed one to Terry, whom Terry took it and inhaled deeply.


"Thanks," Terry muttered in a trite vioce.


"You wouldn't think it to forward of me if I asked you out," the paramedic asked Terry in a shy voice that was all smiles.


"If the love of my life hadn't just killed my brother, his husband, and ran off to god knows where I would say that: no, I do not think that would be to forward."


"Some other time, perhaps?"


"Don't you have some other poor damsel that's in distress to go save," Terry muttered coyly. He couldn't stop himself from flurtting with the cutie in front of him.


"I should be, but, the only life I wish to save is yours."


"You can only save all that wish to be saved."


"And, pray tell, what do you wish?"


"I don't wish. What good is it? Wishes always go sour after awhile."


"You can't mean that. How can you of all people give up on wishes and love. That's what all ten of your books are about. Innit?"


"What do you know of love,and wishes, and life?"


"Not much, I'm only 23, after all."


"Age is no excuse of inexperince. I am only a few years older than you myself."


"If this Lothario Matthews is the love of your life, why then, was he married to your brother?"


"First loves are hard. Thay are even harder when, for both people involved, it is their first honest to god romance."


"I can only imagin."


"You know, sometimes we fight like hell to hold on to what we have, that we have to fight like hell to let go."


"My mother always told me to let him be free if he's meant to be with you."


"Like I said it was our first romance. I was a child that was scarcely out of the puppy fat of youth. He was a man that was more of a child. He was four years my senoir, at twenty."


"So, you were sixteen when you first fell in love."


"And did I ever fall. Do you believe in ghosts, mr. -"


"Favrina. Luca Favrina."


"Well, do you Luca?" Terry reconized the name. How could he not reconize the name of the famous gay count form the dying line of Italian royality. He decied not to make a big issue out of it. He wanted to know how he came across such a common job as he had.


"Yes, I believe that there are spirts out there that try to reach us."


"I don't. real ghost are something else entirely."


"Ok, what are real ghost?"


"They are people, places, events. Some are thoughs, so long repressed that in order to be heard they must take form and pester us until they are heard.


"All true writing is born out of ghosts. After all, writing is merely a matter of being haunted by material."


"I didnt know that, but, it make sence."


"Do you write?"


"No, I paint, that is if I ever get the time. Sometimes I can close I eyes, and when I open them I find that I have painted the very thing that I was thinking about in such detail I swear that I was there again."


"That is because you are an artist who paints."


"What about yourself. What kind of artist are you?"


"I am a artist that no longer wishes to practice my craft."


"What do you wish to do?"


"To live, and to love, and to pen it well in simple sentances."


"How very Plathian of you. So, where do you want to live?"


"Anywhere but here."


"Well, I am going home to Milano. You're welcome to along. If you want?"


"Well, Count, quando parte il volo?"


"How seen can you pack?"


"Let me grab I toothbrush and I'll be ready to go."


"I want to say we have not met by accidnet."


"You haven't met me yet," coyly purred as a ginuine smile streached across his face.




"Penny for your thoughts," Sara's voice chimed as if from some far distant place.


"Che sarà, sarà ," Terry muttered absentmindedly as he looked out the window without really seing the greek countyside darting passed.


"What will be, will be. What a grim thought," Sara said wistfully.


"Almost as grim as your name, Sara."


"So, you can joke. Glad my husband's death hasn't affected you in the least."


"Ha, ha, ha," he laughed dryly.


"You're just a real charming chap, aren't you, Terry?"


"Anything you say Contessa Favrina."


"I haven't been called that since-"


"Since Luca died. I never got over how accepting you were of my relationship with your husband. Has it been that long already?"


"Four years next week."


"How time flies," Terry muttered wistfully.


"Tell me about."


"When is that holiday," Terry asked quizzacally as he attempted to change the subject.


"You mean the one were lovers jump off a cliff?"


"Yeah, That one."




"What's the deal? I don't get it."


"Sometimes you have to do crazy things for love."


"But, why jump off a cliff. Isn't that dangerous?"


"Spoken like someone who has never been in love."


"Oh, I've known love, Sara. I feel in love and hard."


"And They burned you so bad you've become a jaded, cynical, ice queen."


"You don't know the half of it. Love is a dangerous enough affair without jumping off cliffs to prove it."


"Let me guess, you gave him your heart. You devoted yourself to him, forsaking who you were to please him. Is that about right?"


"And then, he fucks me over for my brother and ends up killing my brother and leaving my worse than dead."


"You think you're the only one with scars from love? I going to take a step out of character and be a zoccola for a second and tell you this for your own good: I know you had those warm and fuzzy thoughts about you and Lothairo. You thought that there was something special between you two, and there might well have been at some point in the past. Here's the thing: He's a niceish chap, I imagin he has a cute bum and his face wouldn't be half bad either. You two were all Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliette; the "It" couple of the century. I get that. But, don't you remember your history? Those are tragidies. And when all is said and done, all he'll have to offer you is a tragicilly limp, almost non-existiant piece of Pennette and you can do far better. So, do us all a gigantic favor. Kick him to the curb. Remove in standing invite from your heart. And stop being in love with him already."


"What the hell do you know. You're a fucking Contessa who can have you fill of chaps with a bat of a damn lash. You've never been wanting for love in all your -" She slapped him. "-Stop the car," Terry said to the driver.


"Terry, come back here. You don't know where you are."


"Good bye, Sara." Terry stormed off as the Rolls Royce pulled off in the opposite direction.




"Terry," a fimillure male voice said from the doorway of the cantina he had just stormed past. Terry smelt May Roses and Sandalwood. He turned around and slapped Lothario square in the face.


"Ow," Lothario said holding his cheek in mock hurt.


"What do you have to say for yourself, Lothario Matthews," Terry seethed breathlessly.




"Tu encule! You liar. You've never been sorry about a goddamned thing in your pitiful, pathetic, retched little excuse for an existence."


"OK, you're right, as always."


"Tu connard! I hate your stinking guts. I hate you with all of my heart. You charlatan. Tu bâtard fils d'une puté de merde dans un bordel de chie et saloperie!" Terry slapped Lothario. He went to slap him again, but Lothario caught his hand and kissed it. He pulled his hand free. Taking a backward step, Terry regains his resolve. "Aller brûle en enfer! Tu connard!," Terry said tears on the verge of spilling. He slapped him a second time.


"Feel better?"


"Don’t you take that tone with me mister. You are so lucky looks can’t kill otherwise you’d be eight feet under."


"You mean six feet."


"No, I mean eight. When you die I’m going to knock you down two more feet."


"There, there."


"You mark my words, Mr. Matthews. I’m going to get you back. It might not be today. It may not be tomorrow, but one of these days, you’re going to turn around and I’ll be there and I’m going to get you good like you got me. God as my witness, I will, even if I got to crawl out from my grave to do it," Terry said with less venom then he intended. I just couldn't help it. His heart was softening and there wasn't a thing he could do to stop it.


"I love you too."


"Casse-toi," Terry muttered half-heartedly.


"Terry I have always loved to. I always have, and always will. I just wanted you to know that."


"I could kill you. I have every right to put you through all the hell I've been through because of you."


"Let’s face it Tee. A love like ours doesn't happen often. We should cut our losses and accept what fate had given us."


"I should hate you with all of my soul. I know that I should. But, there is truth to what you said. A love such as the one we share is a one in a million affair. Even when I was with Favrina, my heart was yours and yours alone."


"Then, meet me at the cliff."




"Be there and I'll know we'll be together no matter what. Just be there. That's all the jumping you have to do. If you're there we can figure out how to make this twisted thing we have between us work." Lothario walked off back into the cantina leaving Terry speechless.


"Terry, will you get in the car," Sara said as the car pulled up next to him.


"Yeah, sure," Terry said distantly. His mind on the next night and what it could bring.




The crisp summer's wind tosseled Terry's mop of auburn curl as he waited by the makeshift bar for the festival to begin. Suddenly someone came from behind him and covered his eyes with their hands. "Guess who," the fimilure voice said. Terry didn't need the wind to send to his nose the scent of May Rose to know the it was Lothario.


"I'm here," Terry said with a sigh. "What now?"


"How about a drink," Lothario said as he let his hands fall to his side.


"Sure," Terry muttered as he turned to the bar. He ordered two french 75's, and was about to pay for them when Lothario intercepted and payed leaving a larger tip then was called for.


"To falling in love for the second time," He muttered as he clinked his glass with Terry's.


"To Greece and love," Terry muttered as he took a sip of his drink. "The festival's starting," Terry muttered absentmindedly as he stared into the unfantanable depths of Lothario ocean blue eyes.


"Hold this for me," Lothario muttered not wanting to pull his sight away from Terry but realizing that he had to in order to do what he needed.


"Why," Terry muttered seconds before realzing what Lothario had in mind. "No. You don't have to do that."


"But, I want to."


"You don't have to jump off a cliff to prove to me that you love me."


"Yes I do. It's the only way you will know that I truely love you. That I'm willing to risk dying just to be near you. And you know it's the truth even if you won't admitt it to yourself."


"Well," Terry muttered as he mulled over what Lothario had said before deciding thatg he was right. "The sooner you get this over with the sooner I can have in back in my arms. Go jump. I'll meet you at the shore." A smile danced acrossed Lothario's face as he ran twords the cliff in open-armed bliss. Terry shook his head happily as he went to stand at the shore with to other waiting lovers.




The sun glistened of a dripping wet Lothario making his long gilded locks gleam like a halo. Terry was over come with blinding hot passion as he pounced on Lothario and pressed his lips to his as though he were dying and they were the breath of life. There happy moment was interrupted when Lothario was suddenly and violently ripped from Terry grasp.


"So, this is why you left me," The stranger shot at Lothario.


"I thought I mande it clear when I called it off."


Terry cleared his throat before he spoke. "I don't mean to be rude, but, who are you exactly," Terry said in a level voice taking care to keep his voice netural and not be hauty.


"The name's Joey Toussaint-Steele. The boyfriend," Joey said hotly.


"Ex-boyfriend," Lothario corrected lightly. "Joey, I meant it when I said it was over."


"Y- you, just can't do that to people. Play with their feelings like that," Joey muttered weakly.


Terry wanted to say someting,but, he thought it best to remain quiet and let this play out the way to was supposed to. "Look," Lothario muttered in a voice dripping with more emotion than he usually let show. "I mean it when I said I loved you. At the time, I did love you."


"Until he came along," Joey all but spat as he gestured at Terry vehemittly with an arm that shook with voilent rage.


"It was always him," Lothario muttered weakly. "Terry always had my heart. He was my first true love."


'And what the Hell was I," Joey spat hotly no longer caring if he kept his temper in check. "Was I just some lay until he came along."


"No, it wasn't like that, Jo," Lothario muttered, using the nickname he used when they made love.


Joey could no longer contain his anger and spun on Terry before eirher him or Lothario could stop him. Terry flinched at the suddeness of the attack and fell backwards. Lothario knew that Joey was in a bad mood -- his usually porceline skin was red as a boiled lobster he visably shook as he stood there breathing heavily as thought he'd ran a mile. Lothario stepped in between the two. His body spoke to Terry; told him to run and run fast. Terry obeyed only looking back once to see Lothario taking a punch to the face with enought force that Terry felt the blow from his place a half mile away.


He wanted to turn back and try to defuse the situation. But, he knew Lothario and Lothario knew this Joey boy. Lothario could handle this, Terry though to himself worry clinging to his bones like static. "He will be fine," Terry said aloud to himself as he felt his heart break and he began to openly sob. Heavy wet tears rooled down his cheeks and he made no attempt to wipe them away. He wept and didn't know why.




A leaf, browned and yellowed in spots, brushed up against Terry's face as he stood outside one evening when the sparrows began to quiet their songs. The urn had arrived that day. He looked at it without regerstering what it was. He still could not, would not, believe that it was over; that this was the end of it all. He held in his hands all that remained of Lothario; his beloved Lothario.

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Your love story is full of tempestuous and emotional, twists and turns. 

As one writer to another, I would suggest that the story might less cumbersome if written as a first person narrative from Terry's point of view.  He is the common voice who is more suited to give us the backstory about Lothario, Lance and the relationships through personal reflection.

Please feel free to tell me to go fuck-off if you disagree but my comment is meant to be constructive and not to be critical.  I wouldn't bother if I didn't think that you work has potential.  You have a writer's voice.   


Edited by larkin
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