A girl laughed softly as a brunette, smiling man leaned over their cluttered table, placing a kiss gently on her cheek. She rubbed the area, still laughing as she gazed into his eyes, which were honey-colored and full of happiness. Her delicate hands picked up her spoon; she ate another spoonful of soup as her boyfriend commented on the weather.
"Lovely day, isn't it? The breeze is perfect." Her dark brown curls swayed softly as a gentle wind swept through the town. On a day like this, the outdoor seating at their favorite small café was perfect. The sun shone, but the two were neither too hot nor too cold.
"It seems like spring is finally here, Anton." She gazed into his eyes, feeling perfectly content. He reached for her fingers; they rested their clasped hands on the small, circular table. It was impossible for her not to smile—she was in love with this boy, this college student who shared her major, who had shyly asked her to dinner six months prior.
"I love you," he sighed, as a new breeze ruffled his hair. The day really was perfect. It was like gold, shining and precious. This day had value to him; every day was valuable when he spent it with Colette.
Across from them, a man watched their love blossom. His blonde curls fell to the left as he rested his chin on his hand, listening to their laughter. He caressed her cheek; their smiles were contagious. The man sighed as he watched the two. Without noticing, his waiter arrived with the glass of red wine he ordered, breaking him away from the lovely couple.
"Thank you, monsieur," he said as the waiter handed him the wine. The waiter was another dark-haired fellow, with blue eyes and a young complexion. He took a moment to stare at the lovebirds, watching as the man gave his love's hand another kiss.
"Must be nice to be in love, isn't it?" He sighs, shaking his head. What was he thinking, asking foolish questions to a grown man? His customer merely sipped his wine.
"Love is the most beautiful thing in the world." The man felt a pang of sadness at his words. Love was one of the greatest adventures one could embark on. To him, navigating the coursing waves of romance was nicer than sailing to conquer or winning a war. Watching the couple, with their intimate stares and their soft, affectionate touches grabbed his heart and shattered it. Love brightened the world, but it was a human experience.
His waiter left him alone with his wine—that was all he ordered, all he wanted. Though his eyes remained focused on the couple he watched, he found his gaze quickly shifting as thought took over. He had been living for far too long. He was proud of this fact, yet it pained him. Unless he failed at his job, he would never die. He had been close to failing before—his own revolution left him in a long period of instability, but he rose to power once more—and lost it just as quickly. But he still stood, a couple of centuries later, sipping wine at a pleasant café. He shuddered as he recalled the second World War, where he was defenseless against Germany's demonic regime of hatred and destruction. Yet he was alive and well, and his land thrived. Problems persisted, but no one will ever be fully content with politics. It was a fate he simply had to accept, as well as the question of love.
He had almost emptied his wine glass. Love was such a powerful force, even greater than war or revolution. It fueled people's desires. It gave people passion. It gave dreams and hopes, and it had the power to leave people more crumbled and destroyed than any battle. But love was also like flowers—blossoming into bright colors, fading with the seasons, but always returning. In all his life, the mystery of love had stumbled many—but those who found it lived in happiness. It was the greatest concept in the world, but it drove him into agony. But love was reserved for the perishable.
In the beginning, he had loved many, but he quickly learned a valuable lesson. Love did not die with the person's body; instead, it crept into the darkest part of the mind and drove it into endless despair. He never grew old with those he loved. He watched them fall and the pit of emptiness grew inside of him. Even if he found new love, the cycle would continue, and he would always stand alone, with only ghosts of those he lost to haunt him. After the first few affairs, he shut himself off from anyone when he got too close. He couldn't bear the cycle's continuation. There were others like him, but he did not love them . . . they shared too much history, endured too much pain. He had spent some nights with the American, aiding him in liberation from the British Empire. The passion faded, giving him nothing but painful memories to dwell on. He had made alliances, some of them friendly, some of them romantic and beautiful. In the end, others like him would always betray him, for in the arena of the world, relations were unstable. Enemies became alliances, friends declared war, and loved ones set his capital city ablaze with fire. For the most part, relations with the other powers were mellowed. But there was simply too much history to forgive and forget.
He couldn't deny himself all the time. At night, he would admit to himself that he wanted to sleep with someone beside him, pressed up against his chest. He resided in a house that was too big for one who lived alone. The streets were crowded with people, crowded with several entities, all with a slight possibility of lending him their love. Had he not been burned by past affections, he would be tempted to flirt, to laugh, to start something wonderful that would hollow him in the end. Love was everywhere; it was fleeting, it was strong, it was passionate, and he longed for every touch, for every kiss with every part of his body. All he could do was watch others savor their moments together, while he stood alone, never returning to the foolish man he once was, the man who had hurt himself by indulging in a human experience.
He had a reputation as the "Country of Love". He laughed dryly at the irony, watching the couple abandon their table in favor of a stroll through the town. Countless movies features Paris as a destination of pure love, where soul mates met. He was romantic; to speak his language was to speak love itself. Everyone in his country had the right to love—everyone except for him. The romantic, the man with the great title, could not love, and it pained him to even think those words. What he wanted could never be in his reach, for he would only end up hurting. He could never live up to his name, because the man who bore the name disallowed himself to inflict such pain. He didn't know what could possibly hurt more—spending eternity living in a constant cycle of lost love, or live forever never knowing it.
Perhaps that is a problem for another day.