The Romantic and the Philosopher XVIII

The Philosopher once laughed at one of the many absurdities of the Romantic’s personality. They had been talking about love and she had recalled a line that someone had used that she hated.
It was one of the few times during the Romantic’s brief courtship that he broke from his taciturn studies and laughed with her.
(In truth it was more a of a wry chuckle, he never had the time for them to laugh together.)
“It’s just strange, you hate something yet you remember he it,” he said. (After his all too brief chuckling.)
“Oh!” The Romantic let out a nervous giggle. (She only ever got to giggle with him.) “Yeah, it’s just… I have an odd memory. I remember loads of things I should probably forget.”
Now that the Philosopher was gone, true to form she remembered everything about him that she should forget.
The meticulous way he would wrap up his headphones and keep them in a Ziploc bag. The smell of his pipe. The way the dark wood paneled wall looked behind him. His profile. That shy, bashful smile and the lowering his head after she complimented him on his shirt. The perplexed look he sometimes gave her. The amused one. That brief moment when he was just as happy to see her. His fine fingers wrapped around a cup of tea. The way he always just sipped from the very top of the straw, so delicately. How they both adored the same inky pens. How he called her creative. That brief conversation they had about words and quotes that had given her hope.
All of this and more which would crop up during the strangest times of her day, which put her to sleep and kept her up.

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