Limerence is an involuntary state of intense, obsessive, and romantic infatuation with another person (the “limerent object”), characterized by a desperate need for reciprocation. It is commonly driven by uncertainty, anxiety, and a longing for emotional validation, distinguishing it from healthy love.

Limerence—that obsessive, unrequited longing Lucky has for Sherry North—and the “forgery” of his current life. A non-linear structure to contrast his gritty present with those idealized past memories.

Novel Excerpt

October 1989 Central Massachusetts

He thought about her at least three times that day. This morning, it was as soon as he got to his aching feet and stared at the lump next to him in bed. In the cold dark of the room, he imagined Susan’s smile as he reached out and touched her sleeping form, gently feeling the warmth from her back. How he’d always compared her to Sherry North. It was the hook that had brought them together. She had reminded him of her in small ways: the tone of her voice, not so deep but sitting in a middle range, and the slight touch of innocence in her laugh.

As he drove to work, he thought he saw Sherry North in the car that passed slowly at the red light. It had turned into the parking lot directly in front of him. Of course, it wasn’t her. He knew that. But the hair was dark brown and the eyebrows were similar. It was one of those mornings. Sherry North was more alive in his imagination and thoughts than last night’s dream.

He’d just come from getting coffee at the local shop. Before he’d even walked in—before the whirring of grinders and the acrid smell of ground beans and toasted muffins hit him—he saw her through the front window. Her dark hair, olive skin, and lilting eyes caught his attention, and he automatically put her in a category of “near to her,” the ten, Sherry North. If Sherry North was his goddess and therefore ranked a solid ten, the girl handing out double espressos and lattes was a seven, maybe a seven and a half. That was on the Sherry North scale, mind you. The only way he could judge anyone—any woman, that is. There were a few others in line, but they were too short, too light, too thick. And besides, when he’d gotten his coffee, he had noticed the counter girl was not a seven at all. When he observed her closely, she was maybe a six. It didn’t matter. Sherry North lived in him like an earworm, her song always present, sitting in the background of his day. A memory that wouldn’t fade. The person, Sherry North, was long gone. First love lost. A diamond slipped through his fingers. Lucky shook his head. He knew he was being judgmental, but that’s what Sherry did to him. He was a slave to her memory.

Later that evening, after ten hours on his feet working the chugging beast of a printer, he sat in the quiet of the darkened kitchen and stared at the evening newspaper, the words fading in and out with his lapsed concentration. The silence was broken by the whirling gurgle of the ancient refrigerator. He set the guitar upon his knee and lined his ink-stained fingers up in an A-minor chord. He strummed softly the song he had written in memory of her embrace—the morning when they communed as only young lovers can. Her hot breath on his neck, his hands roaming the places that were a mystery then. He strummed to an Amsus9 and sang, “Gentle her fingers, gentle in the window’s light, soft and fragrant, her love, is a memory, memory, memory, it’s just a memory, memory, memory…” His voice got louder as the refrain reached a crescendo, only to be broken by a small voice: “Daddy.”

His hands froze on the strings, choking them. Sammy—sleepy, worn, rubbing his eyes—stood in front of him. “I’m thirsty.”

“Of course,” he said, placing the guitar on the table.

He retrieved a dinosaur-emblazoned jelly jar from the dishwasher and filled it from the tap.

“Did you have a good day?” he asked.

His son nodded, then quenched his thirst, making an “ahhh” sound between sips.

Sammy’s onesie was loaded; he could tell as he scooped him up, brought him back into his room, and placed him on the changing table.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

His son was silent and compliant as Lucky got him into fresh potty-training pull-ups and laid him back in bed. He was instantly asleep. Lucky rubbed Sammy’s hair, touched his button nose, and turned to check on Susan as she lay bundled in her covers. She was so still she could have been dead. But he knew once awakened she could never live up to the memory he had of her in their best times together.

Lucky went back to the gurgle of the Frigidaire. The spell of Sherry North—of that day so long ago which he sang about—was broken. It lived on the tip of his tongue, in the back of his mind, and in the tissues of his loins. She was his secret place, the back room of his desire, the fantasy he had touched. Sherry North would never let him go. And that gnawing, lonely, empty feeling was his reward for dwelling on lost moments. His lack of mission, the slow slog into a life he hadn’t planned. The daily agenda determined by diapers, grease and ink. Never a moment to himself or when he wasn’t serving others. This was not the life he’d planned. That was somewhere deep within his ode to Sherry North. The promises first love held. The refrigerator sounded like it was coming in for a landing as it sputtered and squealed. Old things. He was surrounded by them. Remnants of someone else’s life, passed down. Lived in. Worn.

Even his wife was a sort of consolation prize. They’d gotten together at a time when sex was a camouflage for who you were as a person. What you were made of internally. Your desires, your dreams, your goals all melted into a sweaty, twisting body beneath you. Desire had no future. But what were his goals? At one time it was to be a writer, then a pen and ink were replaced by an easel and oil paint, painter, only to be diminished by a guitar. He’d never written beyond a few items for the school paper, although they were well received; however, the interest in pursuing writing fell away when he discovered painting. That was in high school. Always in the art room, hanging with the art nerds. He was told he had natural talent, and the painting came easy enough, up to a point. Then he was bitten by the music bug and taught himself guitar. He’d had little desire for college. He took a class here and there at the junior college and flopped between menial jobs, all the while pining over Sherry North and dating Susan.

If only he could learn to control his drive for sex. He wouldn’t be in the position he was facing now. If only he’d stayed with Sherry North. Sherry North was a dreamer, like himself, and was taking classes at the same college, evenings. They met in English 101. He’d found her irresistible. Their affair lasted almost a year. Even after she’d dumped him for James Carter, that phony turd, he still loved her. He’d found out later that James had left her for another man. Imagine walking away from a goddess?

He climbed wordlessly into bed, pulled a pillow against himself, a cold replacement for warm flesh, but she got too hot. He turned onto his side and warmed the sheets with desire. It was a cold substitute for cuddling, but he was beyond caring, long past the asking, the fights, the battle of wills. He wondered if Sammy was getting enough water during the day as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

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