final_thp_2ndedition
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THE CHEMISTRY OF LOVE<br />
a boy,<br />
a girl,<br />
and a withered old man<br />
They sat on cushioned chairs across<br />
from each other, knees touching, in a<br />
small coffee shop. The barista was in<br />
the back somewhere; the only other<br />
customer was an old man reading a<br />
novel in the corner of the room. The<br />
boy looked at the girl, and the girl<br />
looked at the old man. She liked to<br />
think that he was watching them, too,<br />
when neither of them were watching<br />
him. Perhaps he lost his lover when<br />
they were both nineteen. He has been<br />
lonely ever since, and has found that<br />
one of the most beautiful things is<br />
unrestrained love – the kind that only<br />
youth can sustain.<br />
She turned back around and faced<br />
the boy. Isn’t it funny how there is you,<br />
and then there is the way that I perceive<br />
you? That the firing of neurons in their<br />
synapses through the squishy grey matter<br />
of my brain makes up my perception<br />
of you. He looked at her, silently,<br />
unblinkingly. Maybe he didn’t think<br />
it was funny that he was just a series<br />
of neural impulses in her mind. Or<br />
maybe his coffee had lost its heat and<br />
he couldn’t decide whether to order<br />
another one. He lifted a hand, pale<br />
beneath layers of scarves and sweaters,<br />
and gently brought it to her face.<br />
He brushed a few of her hairs away<br />
from her eyes the way one would fold<br />
delicate lace.<br />
Under his doe-like gaze, she<br />
continued. That every time I see you,<br />
hear your voice… think of you, those<br />
chemical stimuli trigger the release of<br />
certain molecules. I only know a few of<br />
them by name, but together they create<br />
this sensation that I’ve learned to call<br />
happiness. She kissed him on the left<br />
corner of his mouth. Serotonin. She<br />
kissed him where the lines of his jaw<br />
end. Norepinephrine. She kissed his<br />
fluttering eyelid. Dopamine. He kissed<br />
her on the center of her lips. Oxytocin.<br />
The old man closed his book and<br />
looked out the window through<br />
streaks of rain. The boy didn’t notice<br />
the pattering of raindrops over the<br />
pulse of his heart. The girl listened<br />
to the sound of her cells dying, and<br />
wondered when her neurons would<br />
become too frail and cynical to form<br />
synapses with each other.<br />
BY|TIFFANY NGUYEN<br />
PAGE 4