End of the Story

Here I will tell you a story:

Let’s start with the place. Inside the country America there exists a southern state bordering Mexico named Texas. In that state is a city not massive, not minuscule. The name of the town is known to me, but we shall ignore this name. For it is bland. Rather, I shall call it Rain Falls.

Now in Rain Falls there was a genial bakery on Main Street, filled with many types of pastries and cookies, at which all the more studious of citizens found themselves most Sundays.

On this one particular Sunday, in the late afternoon, a silver car pulled into one of the few open parking spaces at the famed eatery. A woman of medium height exited the vehicle. She walked, or rather I should say moved nimbly toward, the glass doors that gave entrance to the shop. She wore a violet hoodie of medium quality pulled over a grey shirt of slightly lengthier material. Dark jeans fastened at her waist ran down her legs and mostly covered her black, closed toed shoes. Dressed thus, she reached the bakery’s double doors without mishap.

Oh did I forget? There was a dreadfully cold downpour happening at this time. All the residents of Rain Falls could be seen hopping and skipping from car to shop to car again in the most juvenile of fashions. Getting wet was becoming most uncomfortable as the temperature had dropped to 36⁰ Fahrenheit exactly.

Now the sensible citizens, albeit the less adventurous, were all at home smothered beneath layers of blankets, entertaining themselves by watching mindless television shows.

But this day was not to be wasted by Gianna, our friend in the purple hoodie; no indeed. “I shall not let the rain pause my life,” she had told herself just thirty minutes prior to her walking into the bakery. She was determined to make progress this day.

Thus was the thinking that lay heavily upon her mind as she stepped into the warm bakery and breathed in deep the aroma of sweet breads and dark roast coffee. Nothing focused the mind like the combined effects of these two edibles.

Gianna ordered quickly and sat down at the table in the furthest corner of the eatery. Here she could read in the most concentrated of moods. She pulled a paperback from underneath her sweatshirt where she had kept it dry and safe from the freezing rain. She then adjusted her long, dark hair and positioned her body in the most comfortable position attainable.

In short time an unknown member of the bakery staff delivered Gianna’s order to her table. She thanked him kindly, and sipped the coffee. Ah, the liquid gold. A potent warmth flooded through Gianna’s every appendage. She was glad she had come to this place of peaceful milieu.

But when the day had worn on and customarily turned to night, Gianna’s fervor began to wane. The food had been devoured in each delectable bite, and the coffee was all drunk. Her butt was sore from sitting in the same position so many hours. It was 19:29 now, and she had arrived at 16:13.

“Maybe just a little while longer,” she thought as she looked up from her book for the second time in the last minute to check her phone. Six chapters in her book had been read since her arrival. Gianna then looked out the window and saw that her car was the only one left in the parking lot. It was covered in icy frost.

At this moment fate changed her course, and her mind. She sat there, again absorbed in her book, not noticing that the bakery door had opened letting inside a stellar of a man.

[Stellar, you question? Well had you seen him, you would agree. But since you could not, you must trust me.]

This man’s tall figure made its way to the bar and he promptly ordered a cup of the bakery’s specialty coffee with hazelnut syrup. Having received the hot drink, he then scoped out the seating in the restaurant.

He found it was almost entirely empty at this hour of the wintery night. But there in the corner sat a beauteous woman, engrossed in her novel, oblivious to his stare.

Immediately, Wesley, the aforementioned stellar of a man, moved purposefully in this woman’s direction.

“Excuse me,” Wesley said, addressing the seated woman.

Gianna looked up, surprised. “Yes?”

Wesley smiled. “Hi,” he said. “I do not normally do this, but I saw you and… Would you join me for a cup of coffee?”

Gianna was not a little taken aback. Who was this man? She hesitated. But becoming increasingly bored with her current occupation, she overcame her initial trepidation and grew amenable to this unusual proposal. “What the heck,” she thought, viewing this interruption as flippantly as one might ever attempt to. She closed the book and stood up, extending her hand in greeting.

“Hi, my name is Gianna.”

“Mine is Wesley. It is very nice to meet you.”

Now this is the beginning of the story. You may choose the end. You may answer the question. The question, when does the story end?

Does it end with Gianna and Wesley’s conversation? Does it end with six months of dating and then a breakup? Does it end with engagement, with marriage? Does it end with death? Where and when does the story end? I admit I do not know. But it begs the question… Does a story really ever end?

Can we ever say… “The End”?


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