A Lovely Autumn Evening.

Let me tell you a story.
Do you see that pair on the hill, there? You should. There are only two of them. There’s a boy, and a girl, and of course, me. Watching.
I always watch. It’s the best part of the job.
Take a look. They’re beneath the apple tree, swaddled in sweaters and conjuring words. He paints her a story with those words of his, a grin, and palms in the air like a faith healer.
She is intent, leaning forward, taken. Around them, autumn dazzles. The air is crisp like the apples and the maple leaves crunch. The world is, quite literally, golden.
Autumn is such a romantic season.
It’s awful, really.
Now, before I tell you what I can see, it’s best to explain my job.
I haven’t even introduced myself yet. How rude.
I am Love, though I am hardly lovely. There are many personifications of me, the most dreadful of which being the ridiculous depictions of a fat baby, swaddled in a diaper and aiming arrows. My line of work is hardly infantile.
I’m sure you must be wondering, Love? You’re a person?
No. Don’t be foolish.
Here is a quick fact about me: I am everywhere. I am the butterflies in your abdomen, I am the glow of a woman expecting her child, I am that moment of joy when you receive a text message from someone special.
Now, back to business.
Beneath the apple trees, in the center of autumn, this is what I see:
A girl and a boy. They’re not in a romantic relationship, yet here I am. The boy loves her dearly, but not in the way that elicits those awful radio jingles that preach of me. She is his dearest friend, and I am present whenever he looks into her wide, inviting eyes. Does he love her? Yes. Is he in love with her? No. Maybe. A little. Not enough to leave his fiancée, he thinks.
The girl: She is smitten with me. I can hardly catch a break; I fog her dreams, cloud her eyes, keep her awake at night. I think it is so curious how you people have agreed on the phrase, “falling in love”. One does not simply fall into me; I force myself upon you. I am never accidental.
Here is more information about me: I make mistakes.
Now, you might ask, You make her fall in love with him, but don’t make him return the love? How is that fair?
I am hardly fair.
Back to the pair.
The sun begins to set and the girl lowers her eyelids. She knows it’s time for them to go; he has his fiancée to return to. Just once, she thinks, I would like to have him for the night. We would talk and eat these apples and walk under the stars. I’d slip off my shoes and he’d loosen his tie. We would be so surprised when the sun begins to rise, at how quickly the time could fly. We’ll slowly become nocturnal, I’d joke, and you’d grin that grin and tell me more stories, all of your words, and I would listen until I heard them all, until there was nothing left to say, and I would hold you like a secret for the rest of the day.
Instead, she does not speak of me.
He gazes toward the falling sun and suggests they leave. She agrees. I can feel myself churning quietly inside her.
The autumn air grows colder as they collect their apples. The silence of this task is broken like ice when she drops a piece of the fruit, and he bends down to retrieve it.
The boy stands and offers her apple back to her. It is temptingly, beautifully, red.
Now, I am no literature buff, but I do love symbolism when I see it.
Speak, girl.
Instead, she holds the apple, holds her tongue.
The girl thanks her friend and they begin the descent down the hill, away from the tree of apples and towards the town. Soon they resume their talking. His words are quick enough to create smoke on the frosty air. Her cheeks are flushed, but not from the chill.
I am Love, though I am hardly lovely. I am everywhere.
I am in the way she looks at him as they enter the town; I am in the way his fiancée’s arm snakes around his waist when he returns to her. I am in the hours the girl will stay awake tonight, picturing the stolen night she imaged under the apple trees, the longing she feels in the core of her heart.
I am in the details.
Here is one the girl has missed: The boy would’ve loved that night. I would know.
Here is the problem with you people. You love me; you praise me throughout your history with songs and paintings depicting the happiness I cast upon you; yet you fear me as well. I am inside every one of you, yet you are not brave enough to speak of me to the people I steer you towards. Death could take you any day and you choose to hold me inside of you and risk me dying, with you, unspoken, unfelt. Unreturned.
I am the voice in your chest that you silence with fear. I am her heart, telling her to call him and tell him of me. I am in him as well, keeping him awake tonight, wondering if he should do the same.
I am Love, and I am as tempting as an apple.
I’m nothing if not acted upon.
Go on. Take a bite.