Shakespeare is one of my favorite authors, and one of the things I like to do is take his sonnets and imagine the stories that inspired them. This may not be what inspired Shakespeare, but it is how Shakespeare inspired me. I'm new to writing fanfiction, so feedback is appreciated. Flames will be eaten by dragons. Thanks for reading.
Melvin and I walk along the beach slowly, grinning at each other and at Duke, Melvin's black Labrador pup who likes shaking off seawater onto us. The ocean's waves are tall, still slightly choppy after yesterday's storm, with gleaming underbellies and tops glaring sunlight into my eyes. Two miles up the coast my favorite thinking spot stands unchanging, painted a bright winding spiral of red and white, topped in glass and black metal. The lighthouse, to me, represents the strength of love, tirelessly withstanding even the harshest gales and storms to warn and protect the sailors who rely on it.
A sharp poke in my side disturbs the mental picture. "Ouch! What, I mean why, I, Melvin!" He raises dark brown eyebrows at me incredulously. Sighing, I wrap an arm around his waist, lean and hard from years working on his father's fishing rig, covered in a loose purple cotton shirt I bought along with some sharp black trousers for his twenty-third birthday last month. "Sorry. I will try to pay more attention to you. I just…"
"I know. You were thinking about some noble concept or beautiful image, right? Tell me about it." Green eyes gaze at me, set in a sun-browned face under hair dark as the tavern's beams. "Alright. It was the lighthouse. Always there, I feel like it's a symbol of what love ought to be, unwavering, selfless, and strong."
"So serious. We could stop by there, if you wanted." In answer, I lean to place a soft kiss on his temple. Melvin moves away slightly, ducking his head and glancing around the beach. "Ssh! Careful! If the wrong person sees us..." I turn to look up then down the beach. It is deserted save for Duke and maybe twelve various seabirds. Melvin flushes. "I know, but still. We want to be alive and well for our anniversary next week, don't we?" I think the small, dreamy smile on my face answers his question, for now he whistles loudly to Duke, who stops trying to catch the waves and runs toward us with an enthusiasm that will be frightening if he ever gets any bigger but for now is adorable.
"Good boy, Duke!" Melvin deftly steps behind me as the puppy shakes and places his front paws on my knees, which are now heavily spotted with seawater. "Let's get breakfast, hmm? Pick up some event flyers for next week?" With a laugh, he shoves me lightly on the shoulder and starts trotting up the beach. I scoop up Duke and follow. When we reach the boardwalk, a large poster greets us. Across the top "CIRCUS" is proclaimed in styled red letters, beneath which is a list of times and acts framed by the picture of a large red and yellow tent filled with amusements. A block or so down the walk a brightly decorated booth staffed by circus workers swarms with activity. Melvin seems distracted. "Here, you go on, I want to get those flyers first. See you in a bit." With a quick squeeze of my hand, he is gone, leaving Duke and I alone among the early morning crowd.
The noise in the tavern swells and breaks like waves as people come and go throughout the dinner rush. Melvin and I are tucked away in a back corner, enjoying the welcoming atmosphere of the weathered, dark-stained beams and wooden walls. The walls are decorated with pictures of giant fish of several species, a few framed specimens and particularly interesting pieces of driftwood, and an oil on canvas of the lighthouse keeping watch in a thunderstorm. As we discreetly share bites of rich fish stew, brightly colored vegetable quiche, and fresh rolls, someone draws Melvin's attention from across the room. A woman wearing a fashionable burgundy dress walks purposefully toward us. Thin and pale-skinned with shiny, short, sunset-orange hair and a face too round for her toned figure, she looks every inch the socialite. I look down briefly at my scuffed jeans and university tee shirt, then over at Melvin's beige slacks and blue polo.
"Melvin!" I hiss quietly, "Who is she?" At the same time she calls out,
"Melvin, is that you?" A sheepish look crosses my lover's face as he responds to us both.
"Chantelle! It's good to see you again." When she reaches the table Melvin continues "Charles, this is Chantelle, she's the daughter of Mr. DelaRose, the man who owns the circus. I met her yesterday after our walk, when I was picking up flyers for next week."
"Oh!" The woman cuts in, "What's next week? If you don't mind my asking?" Her face moves to look at both of us, but her eyes are fixed on Melvin. Before I can answer truthfully, which is unwise but sorely tempting, Melvin lies.
"Charles' birthday. He's turning thirty-five." My birthday is really still three months distant.
"How lovely. The circus would be a great way to celebrate." Chantelle gushes, "Well, I just wanted to say hello again. It was nice to meet you, Charles. Bye!" She bounces away with a slight wave of her hand.
Melvin turns to face me with a slight smile. "That went well, hmm?" I look at him. "Or not." He blows air gustily at the hair over his forehead, making it tremble violently. "Well, it could have gone worse. Anyway, she's gone now. Earlier you wanted to tell me something, what is it?"
Straightening in my chair, I lean forward. "I've been offered a full-time position at the university. They want me to teach some of the philosophy classes. It's much more reliable than the substituting I've been doing, and I'll be making a better wage." Instead of the sincere congratulation I'd been expecting, Melvin looks at me silently, thoughtfully. "Well?" I ask, a touch hurt.
"This is a pretty permanent thing, isn't it?" Melvin finally responds. "I mean, if you take the job, you aren't going to want to leave six months later." He pushes his chair back some, waiting.
"No, I'm not. But that's a good thing, isn't it? We'll have a steady income, one that's big enough to make something of, to make a life together with." I am confused now; this promotion is what I have been dreaming of for years, the chance to build something meaningful out of my education and experience, the chance to make something permanent with my lover, so that we can grow old together. Melvin knew that. At least I thought he did.
"I have to go, Charles." Melvin stands to leave. Turning to face me, he adds, "I'm happy for you. I really am. This just changes some things. I love you."
I automatically respond. "I love you too." Then he is gone.
Two days later I am in my office, which has been mine for all of an hour and still holds a few of my predecessor's belongings when a knock sounds from the open doorway. I look up and Melvin is there, watching me sadly, a blue canvas bag in one hand and Duke cradled in the other. "Melvin?" A mixture of delight at his unexpected appearance and dread at his expression wars in my stomach, making me feel much like the first time I asked him to dinner. "Why is Duke with you? He shouldn't be here." He steps in and stares at the walls, bare stone, and at the ceiling, plain wood, then at the thin red rug on the ground, never at me.
"I'm leaving, Charles." He sets the bag down and finally looks at me. "When the circus leaves, I'm going with it."
His face grows frustrated at my stricken expression. "I don't know why you didn't see this coming, Charles. We want different things in life now. I've changed. When you told me about your new job before, that was the final piece in the puzzle. We aren't safe here or anywhere. I want to live without looking over my shoulder for watching eyes, and I want to be more than a fisherman's son. You want stability. His voice gets louder and louder, until he screams the last sentence, "I can't give that to you!" Breathing deeply, he directs his attention at Duke, who is whimpering at his handler's anger. "No, I'm not mad. I'm sorry. Shh." He looks at me again. I feel like his words were scourges, and now I am bleeding to death. "Miss DelaRose offered me a position as a laborer. It's not much, but it will get me out of here. The road is no place for a dog. You love him more than I do. He's yours." With that, he places Duke on the rug and turns to leave. From the doorway, he turns again and says quietly, "I'm sorry, Charles. No love lasts forever."
Some long amount of time later I stir, spurred into movement by a cold nose against my ankle. "Good boy, Duke," I whisper. Shakily, I pick him up, setting him in my lap. The enthusiasm with which he licks my face is startling until I realize he is lapping up the tears, which have flowed down to soak into the collar of my shirt. I didn't know I was crying. I can't think of his being gone, cannot yet fathom his absence; instead my mind plays memories over and over of the sweet times we've had. I feel the hot panic of our first date, still half afraid he is toying with me; the joy of our first kiss, which came after hours of beautiful conversation while walking the university campus at night. The first declarations of love; the first time he mentioned "forever," and the day he got Duke, only a month ago, telling me Duke could be "our" dog. The room is cold now, an indicator of the late hour. Slowly, with the unsteady movements of a man twice my age, I pack up to leave, only barely remembering to take the canvas bag containing Duke's things. Halfway home I stop and look up at the stars. "Lies," I whisper to myself, "all lies."
Duke and I wander the beach under the moonlight, moving quickly so that we can be there and back before the moon sets, leaving us in total darkness. He is in the awkward adolescent months now, paws and elbows disproportionately large compared to his scrawny torso. Soon he will be full-grown, complete in his journey to become a sleek and powerful Labrador. The lighthouse is almost in view, I can see the trees flashing green as its giant beam flashes over them. He's been gone for months now. When I went looking for him the day after- that day, he'd already moved out of his father's house and into Circus quarters. No one would let me see him. His father gets semi-regular postcards and is happy to share them with me. Miss Chantelle and he are an item now, and he has taken up smoking, perhaps with the intent of becoming a fire-eater. He told me that no love lasts forever, but I do not believe him. Love- should be like a lighthouse or the stars. Permanent, lasting through storm and time. If it is not, then it is not love. I believe this. I must.
Shakespeare's Sonnet # 116:
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.