Short Fiction

The short story that I have selected is "Appointment with Love" by S.I. Kishor
...In this story, the protagonist is supposed to meet his "pen-pal" which happens to be a woman at a train station. He knows not if she'll be ugly or beautiful in his eyes. The woman is supposed to be wearing a red rose. He sees some hot chick and he sees some woman who is the opposite of the other woman in terms of attractiveness. He longs to pursue the pretty woman but he also wants to be with the woman with whom he had shared his heart and soul. In the end, he asks the uglier woman out, even though his desire to do so had been diminished significantly upon sight of her. But he found out that the pretty woman actually was the woman he was supposed to meet. She just convinced the other woman to wear the rose, as a way of testing the man. He then becomes victorious in both his quest for love.
(When he decides to ask out the ugly woman) "He squared his broad shoulders, saluted and held the book out toward the woman, although even when he spoke he felt the bitterness of his disappointment." (Kishnor 2).


A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she murmured.
Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat.. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own. And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her.
This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful. I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"


 

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