Love was her favorite word.

Love was her favorite word, though she wished that it wasn’t. She fancied that it would’ve been much more interesting if she could say that her favorite word was flamboyance, or Reubanesque, or, delicacy. They rolled out so nicely through her teeth and lips. But then, she thought, why not make shabrack her favorite word? It had such a fascinating sound to it! Or how about tripanosome? Or metasequoia? Or, she thought, how impressive she would sound if she could say that she was absolutely in love with the word aschelminth! But, there it was again. That word. Love. That insufferable cliché of a word! A word that she would hear on everyone’s lips, see on almost every book and blog and journal, flashed on every T.V. show, plastered on billboards, etched on study desks and bathroom stalls, preached on the pulpit, and whispered in gossip. LOVE. The word had become commonplace. What was it that drew her to it? A mere syllable comprised of four letters. Love. She said it over and over again, softly, slowly, in an attempt to understand it. Love, love, love… Her mind raced to find an answer. But whenever it felt like an epiphany was nearing, she suddenly found herself back where she began, back to the whispering of the word, in wonder, in utter stillness. Then she realized that perhaps that was where she would like to remain. Still, in waiting, in the anticipation of the revelation of love.