If My Life Was a Romance Novel:

Jeff emerged from the air-conditioned basement, squinting his eyes against the sun's harsh glare. Humidity struck him like an open hand and almost immediately glistening beads of sweat appeared on his arms and neck. Raising one hand in an attempt to ward off the golden miser's merciless assault, Jeff cursed under his breath. Could not the theatre's front porch could go another day without a coat of fresh paint? Would not the can of oil-based red enamel he firmly gripped keep another day in the cool, dark shop? A grim smile crept slowly across Jeff's face, splitting his typically stoic visage with an uncharacteristic show of emotion. Sure, the porch could wait. But could he? Upon first seeing the theatre's front porch Jeff had known he must paint it. He and the porch were tied together by the unwavering and irrevocable thread of fate. The hair on the back of his neck stood up every time he strode past it, and his heart skipped a beat every time he heard the familiar creak of its steps. Wiping the sweat from his brow and silently affirming his intentions, Jeff moved through the thick air towards the object of that intent. Three or four yards away from his ruby red mistress Jeff paused. He spoke aloud, his voice laden both with utmost respect and unmistakeable desire.

"You've waited long enough," he whispered, "and today will be the day we get you out of that old coat."

As he began his work the sun rose higher and higher in the blue sky above him. Jeff's shirt clung to him, his body drenched in sweat. The first task at hand was to gingerly remove the decaying layers of paint that gripped her sides. With the soft but firm hand of a master paint scraper, Jeff dived into the duty with ecstatic zeal. His fingers sought peeling enamel and found it with ease. Leaving only paint chips and cobwebs in his wake, Jeff disrobed the porch. Now it only remained to apply again the beauty and dignity that age had stripped away from her. Again and again his brush plunged and retreated, waxed and waned. Caught up in the delirious joy of the act Jeff lost himself, swept away in a flurry of wood and paint and tarp. With every stroke the porch beneath him found newfound life, newfound elegance. As he spread paint across its surface, delving into the deepest cracks and weariest knots, Jeff marveled at the object resting below him, the object that simultaneously served as his perch and his muse, his seat and his canvas.

As quickly as the task began it was finished. Pouring sweat and spattered with red paint Jeff dismounted. Was it already over? Must he return to the sterile cold of the theatre, separated from his beloved by unfeeling walls of stone and steel? Jeff, desperately panting for breath, was staggered by the prospect. Had he grown so close to the porch only to be untimely ripped away from it? Resigning himself to his fate, Jeff kneeled close to his mistress, whispering into a knot of wood that vaguely resembled an ear:

"I will return. Wait for me."

With these words Jeff strode swiftly away from the porch, daring not to look behind him. With every step he left a piece of his heart behind, a piece of his heart that would some day lead him back to the wooden lady that had shown him that neither age nor chipped paint can stand in the way of love.