A lot of people have bizarre ways to wind down after a rough day. Me? I write. To be specific, I write short stories. They’re all kind of along the same story line. The characters are a blend of real and fictional, but the real ones are six years older than they currently are. Again, to be specific, I write about myself and those close to me six years in the future. So, without further ado, I’ll let you all read what I think is the “first” story in my little timeline.

Meghan stood on a chair, teetering dangerously as she banged a nail into the freshly painted gray wall of her bedroom. She stepped back down, the hardwood floor, warmed by the setting sun blazing in through the balcony door. She rested against the new bed that hadn’t been made since last night; she nearly blushed as she realized the comforter and most of the pillows had been thrown against the far wall.

            She picked up the ornate mirror and hung it against the nail, and stood back to judge her work.

            The past few weeks hadn’t been kind to her. She’d been hired by Petals, a world-renowned fashion magazine, and been told to be in their office in West Los Angeles in three weeks. Her long-time boyfriend, Ben, was faced with a choice. He already had a job offer from the US Park Police at the Capitol that paid well and was fairly tame. California was another world and he was unsure if he could even get a job as a security guard at a mall. After what she imagined to be completely sleepless nights, even by his insomniac standards, he pulled up to her front door with all of his belongings packed into the bed of his Silverado, his motorcycle tucked improbably between the side of the bed and a box containing his videogames.

            They left that night, a trailer of Meghan’s stuff behind them, for the land of fun and sun. Ben desperately applied for the LAPD, the LA county sheriff’s department, and the California Bureau of investigations over his cellphone and Meghan’s laptop, typing furiously in truck stop diners and swearing heinously every time he reached an answering machine. By the time they reached Omaha, Nebraska, Ben announced that he would rent her a U-Haul van, because he had to return home because he was officially unemployed. They spent a lonely night in a motel, Ben to depressed to even make love to her, choosing instead to sleep at the very edge, facing completely away from her.

            The following morning, she awoke to see Ben sitting at the card table the motel provided, guzzling a mug of presumably black, and presumably potent, coffee. He looked younger than she’d seen him in a while, and absolutely terrified. In addition, she could tell he was letting go. His usually close-cropped hair was spilling over his ears, marching down his forehead. While he usually maintained a touch of stubble, he had an outright shadow spread across his face. His usually toned arms and chest seemed to be slack, like garden hose where normally she found taught steel cables. The wings of the eagle he had tattooed across his well defined back drooped pathetically. He was, in short, defeated. Ben barely looked at her as he tossed her the keys to the U-haul, and stepped out. Shocked, she sat on the edge of the tiny bed, staring at her reflection in the tiny obsolete television. She was a gorgeous girl: large, expressive hazel eyes, a soft jaw line, round cheeks, and the sort of lips that begged to be kissed slowly and carefully. She watched herself as the excitement she had about finally living with this boy, this man, the greatest mystery in her life, finally caved into the realization that she was no princess and she was moving into reality, not a fairytale.

            Suddenly, outside, she heard a squeal and a blaze of horns caterwauling. The Silverado’s huge racing engine rumbled back up outside, and she heard passionate footsteps outside, followed by Ben throwing himself against the door. After realizing he needed to use his key card to get into the room, she was faced with a breathless, rejuvenated version of the shell she’d seen walk out minutes before.

            “LASD just called back. I’m gonna be a Special Operations deputy in the Narcotics division.” He grinned and she leapt into his arms.

            Back in the condo, Meghan blushed again as she thought about how he’d made up for the preceding night before loading up into the truck and dropping off the van.

            That had been three weeks ago, and she felt as if she had skipped out on reality and instead found her fairytale.

            She and Ben were the proud new owners of a one-bedroom condo, on the top floor of an old warehouse in the hills overlooking Los Angeles. Their bed faced a balcony that overlooked the entire city to the west, and she could even barely make out the ocean between the glittering buildings some days. The place was modern, airy, and bright- exactly what she wanted to live in. Ben allowed her to decorate as she pleased, as long as he was left a single room to be his “man cave”. The walls inside it were left bare brick; the floor was a sheet of diamond tread steel, like the deck of a battleship. He plastered the walls with pictures of cars, guns, and the fire trucks he’d worked on in high school. His old fire helmet, a dented, dingy, yellow thing, hung on the wall, illuminated by a tiny LED spotlight like a holy relic.

            Outside, under the balcony, she heard Ben’s motorcycle growl to a halt. She ducked into the bathroom and wiped the dust off her face and hands while his key rattled in the lock.

            Ben strode confidently into the condo, his aviator sunglasses still on his face, his gun on his hip, the word “SHERIFF” printed across his gray t-shirt in bold black letters. The kneepads he wore over his jeans when he was riding were scuffed and rubbed, a telltale sign that he’d been speeding.

            “Could you please keep that damn thing under the speed limit? You don’t even wear a helmet, you hypocrite!” Meghan began to fuss as Ben grabbed a soda from their bedroom minifridge, clearly enjoying the attention.

            “Yes mom, I’ll remember that next time,” he said, as he turned on a heel, swigging the weird green beverage. Meghan wrinkled a face and held up both hands,

            “Don’t talk to me, you’re disgusting.”

            Ben laughed and plucked her off the chair and swung her around like she weighed nothing, kissing her forehead. Meghan loved this man so very much she almost felt like she wanted to-

            “Will you marry me?” Ben gently set her down on the bed and knelt, holding a tiny blue box with a sleek silver ring inside it. A delicate curl of silver lovingly surrounded a diamond, a tiny shard of what she guessed heaven could be made of.

            Life suddenly rushed into her lungs, cold and warm at the same time. Her nerves crackled with emotion, and she wasn’t yet sure whether to cry, laugh, or continue staring stupidly at the ring.

            What she was certain of was her answer. “Well, I guess you’d be tolerable,” she said, the same way she had right after he’d asked her to become his girlfriend, six years ago.

            And just like she did six years before, she kissed him before he could say anything stupid to ruin the moment. Without changing and without dinner, they tangled themselves up in the sheets that were still on the bed, and fell asleep some time later, the noises of the city drifting lazily in with the night air through the open balcony door. Around three, Meghan woke momentarily to sneak a glance at her new fiancé.

            Ben’s eyes were open, his head up against the headboard. Instinctively, he looked down at her.

            “Something wrong babe?” She asked, seeing there was a tear rolling silently down his left cheek.

            Ben shook his head. “I don’t want to do something stupid, and have you wind up a widow with a really ugly motorcycle parked out front and a really nicely folded flag in the living room.”

            Meghan nodded, nuzzled close to his bare chest, and sobbed herself to sleep, his rough hand delicately stroking her hair until he felt her drift off, before he too lapsed back into a blissful sleep.