I Know Little Snow White Reads Happily Ever After
(But Doesn’t Happily for Now Read Romantic, Too?)
"Hello, world!"
1.
I set my novel on the grass beside me and look up. A lot of people visit these woods to hear my story, so maybe I should introduce myself. “I’m Lark, a serial romance novel fanatic.” I return to my novel and wonder, But will she ever get her own HEA?
A wailing baby bird catches my attention. I spot a plump worm in the ground and pluck it up in order to position it on a branch, as near to the nest as I can reach before I decide to take a late afternoon stroll. I think, Every birdy could use a helping hand.
2.
I notice the dense woods opening to a clearing and skip merrily toward it. Fragrant wildflowers grip my sense of smell, and I run to the middle of the field. Novel in hand, I spread my arms wide, smile, and think, This is something only my book boyfriends would do.
But would I prefer they bring me a bouquet of flowers or take me to a field full of wildflowers like these? Flowering curiosity about gestures instead of guys pleasantly distracts me until my gaze travels to the other side of the clearing where a smoky trail disappears into trees.
3.
I tip-toe through the field, closing in on the broad back of someone whose muscular arm draws back from occasional licks of fire and whose t-shirt stretches to its limit as a result. I back away—but not without snapping a stray twig, of course—and I freeze when the man turns in my direction.
“Squirrels in trees,” he mutters dismissively before grumbling and turning back toward his fire. More like a deer in headlights, I think, instantly taken by his deep voice, muscular physique, and mysterious presence. I pull my book into my chest and think, But no romance novel I’ve ever read started happily ever after with being mistaken for a squirrel.
4.
Along a path toward my family home, I settle by a brook to face myself and ask, “How did my father find my mother?” I release my novel to the earth, hold my hands to my heart, and ask, “For that matter, how did he find my step-mother after my birth-mother died?”
Somehow I doubt that it was by passing a fairytale romance correspondence course disguised as a romance novel, and I wail, “What if you only get one happily—ever—after all!” I still myself to watch an ant barely manage to pull a large leaf when a smaller one lay nearby. “Tell me, little fella,” I ask the ant, “Is happily for now settling?”
5.
I arrive home as the sun’s light becomes more distant—but just enough light for me to finally finish the novel. My father says, “There’s my beauty!” But Rena hops up, removes my food-filled plate from the table, and says, “Shame a pretty girl can’t find such a charming fella outside of that lovey-dovey book.” She scoffs and leaves us there.
I know my father has taken Rena’s side when he avoids my gaze, so I step outside onto the front stoop to watch the sun slowly settle beyond the furthest treeline. In the coming year, I will find my own view of this sunset. But from where? And with whom? I wonder. My peripheral vision catches movement in the dimming light, and I see a recently familiar muscular physique walking back toward the woods.