The Rock

The Rock

There once was a man who had a crush on a rock. Usually it’s the other way around. He wasn’t a geologist, nor was he a rock climber, nor had he ever even really noticed rocks, not even when he was a boy, and he was nearer to them, where they littered the ground. 
     It felt as personal as any human crush he’d ever had. And as we usually do he went around telling everybody about her, only he didn’t tell them she was a rock because he knew they’d think he was crazy. 
     When one friend, who he met in a bar midday, asked him what her name was, he heard himself say, “Roxanne.” 
     As the months wore on, this same friend began to ask him why he hadn’t introduced him to Roxanne yet, who he’d started referring to as his girlfriend. 
     “She’s kind of the kind of girl who wants you to come to her.” 
     “How the hell am I supposed to come to her if I haven’t met her?”
     “Beats me?”
     “And she beats you?”
     They laughed so hard they slapped the bar. 
     It went on like this for awhile and then the man died. His will stipulated that his ashes be scattered at the foot of the rock, into the side of which was carved the name Roxanne. 
     It’s still there of course — the rock, her name — but the ashes are gone.
     Not even the remains remain.