Years had passed since she had last seen him; he without a name, he without a face.
She remembered the night well. It was the eve of her Fourth Annual Party Gala Event and that night was meant to be especially exciting. That night she would announce to her friends and family that she was accepted to Harvard for grad school on a full scholarship.
She knew she deserved it; she had worked hard, pulling night shifts at the local diner and spending her 15 minute breaks writing her thesis bit by bit. She knew it was controversial to use Immanual Kant’s viewpoints to explain The String Theory. No one, after all, had ever done such a thing. Some would claim it was impossible, that the two had nothing in common, that Kant had died 200 years before The String Theory was introduced, that an 18th century German philosopher had absolutely nothing he could say on the theory. Coco was confident she had the facts to back it up, and the fact of the matter is, she did.
But on that eve she had a dream. A masked man came into her room and swept her away, showing her still framed moments of her life as it was going to be. A life of intellectual stimulation, tea with Stephen Hawking, a cozy house with two Jack Russell Terriers and a husband who treated her right.
The masked man turned to her and said, “this is what you could have, but it is not what you are meant to have. Someday you will meet a man who refers to himself as a sweetened beverage. He will pay to have fake body parts put into your real body parts. Someday this man will make you his wife, and you and his slight lisp will live richly ever after.”
Across Coco’s face a secret smile danced. As she felt the feather duster tickling her asshole in front of dozens of paparazzi, she knew she had made the right decision. She knew she was finally home.