Fiction work # 12

Love, I suppose.
What a strange fancy.
Of family, who knows you so well, knows the weave of your fabric.
Of infatuation, the sudden heady rush of perfectly understanding.
Of friends, gained by degrees through familiarity, respect and deference.
Of an object. I must admit, I love this building. I know it so well, it's doorhandles more familiar to me than my own toes. I think it (he? she?) loves me back; leaves me surprises(pumpkin seeds scattered like perfect sakura petals by the backdoor). How shall it feel, then, when I am excised from it, prised like flesh out of a scapel incison? In my absence the building will change. It will only exist in my heart. Will I still love it? I suspect I shall, in absentia.
But then I shall only love a figment, a memory, a dream of something. Once it is gone, does it matter if it ever existed?
You can probably tell I have an agenda to this thought. I have a crush (Oh, folly!) on a television character (Oh, fate!). I know him as well as any love I've ever had. Whether he knows me or not is irrelevent; he is a conceptual schema. The question is: what's to be done?
He makes me think of rhubarb. The first bite of crisp rhubarb, the tiny grits of sugar, the tart flood, even the tough strings that catch in your teeth. The shape, a smiling mouth, and the color of red, yellowy-green, even the smell, like no other on earth. I remember sitting on the cement steps in front of the house, warmed by the sun, with a safety-orange plastic cup of sugar, long stick of wet rhubarb, and my sister and brother, watching the park. Sometimes we'd just dip it in the sugar, then mangle the end, eating the sugary-rhubarb juice. The last clumps of sugar fused with sour water eaten like Nerds.
Ah, summer. A season of larks.