Tocix thrust

"I don't believe it" she said looking at him standing there, in the rain. She was inside, leaning against the banister with the rest of the graduating class, her lips reciting the words "he's writing...", the others including her husband were in the background, in the hall, not one of them could hear her from the parquet, dancing their night away, while she whispered "fiction" over and over again. University was finally over, most of the graduates had the foresight to see themselves closer to the self actualization they were so often taught about how to achieve, in class by their professors. He was outside, he had self actualized, he had finished his work. The Novel he had spent an additional year in school writing.
"Fiction" he said to himself, standing outside in the rain. "My ass!". It was about her, his book, "The Devotion to her Horror" was an epic reflection of their love and bound. He had spent two years of his life reviewing and re analyzing what had happened, how he could have fallen into such a crack, a chasm of sorrow and despair. He missed it, the heartache and torment eclipsed with the zest of the enigmatic solace in attaining her love. She was the cats meow. Everything he had ever wanted, really. He was unavailable at the time they met. She was left bare, in fashion, by a husband who's existence was there to siphon what was left of the elegance within her aurora. She found herself alone for along time. Rejected, she needed him, past her zenith, he looked and saw her sincerely. He didn't need her then, but from within his remoteness, and amid her abandonment they dispensed themselves into the serene tranquility of the demented frenzy of love. "How demure" he said, thinking of her wrapped around his shoulders, embracing the Benedict he never was, and will never be. He sat there outside thinking, cold and wet, discerning her circumstances. And in his solace, he found himself reembarking in the same routine that gave him license to work and command. He was happy he could assume he understood what she felt next to him, the husband she so diffused. "Because I allowed myself to play that role in your drama, your plot in our dream." he said out loud, looking at her through the window. He now sat there seeing himself the inmate and advocate of her interior conception, "My new fiction....the truth" he said softly into the wind. He was happy to be standing there in the rain, he knew how to think of it, he understood how we are all always so alone.