She stepped into the car in a hurry, and slammed the front door a bit too hard. She was late. She drove the car out of the garage, and geared up to her destination on 45 miles an hour.

Outside, it was raining heavily. Thick raindrops fell lavishly on her front shield which were then constantly squished out by the careless yet periodic wipers. She did not like rain. Especially that day when it became an obstacle in finding the place where they were holding the auditions for Shakespeare.

She had read enough Shakespeare by now, she told herself, convincing her heart to stay calm and confident. It had been six months with Shakespeare's major plays, she noticed. Yes, she did remember the 18 lines she had rehearsed for the audition, she told that too to herself.

The violent rain didn't keep her forever from finally making it to the audition place. She parked too much on the outside, and so ran to the far off building, trying her best to stay as dry as possible. She was going to perform after all.

She performed. They approved. Then judges asked her to do a few more scenes for them. She did. They liked it, certainly they did. Before she left, a director met her way and said,

"You-you were good," the director nodded several times and continued, "Yeah, that was nice."

"Mm-hmmh, umm?" She tried not to sound nervous.

"I am going to direct A Midsummer's Night Dream and that's what you're interested in, right?"

"Umm, yeah, mmm-hmmm."

"Yeah, we''ll have callbacks on Thursday, once the auditioning process is over."

"M-mmm, umm, so, so, do-do I-?"

"Oh yeah, oh yeah, don't worry. I'll give ya a call."

And with that she left the room, and marched off to the exit of the building. A rare expression had crawled upon her face, which no one had ever really seen on her, except the receptionist that sat across the exit door of that building.

This time, she didn't run. Nor did she wear her over-coat to shield herself from the windy rain. She let the raindrops strike her face, and let the wind slap her waist as she walked through the storm, smiling.

The huge dinner table is set. The party is on. Knives are flashing, forks are digging, tongues are rolling. There is barbecue. Here's pork. And some beef. Is that a rib? Is that a leg? But what animal is that made of, she asks. It doesn't matter, they say. Just eat it. It's good. No? You don't want it? Try something. Here, try a chicken breast. It's soft. If not, get some turkey. Here, c'mon take it. Put some pepper. Why? It's hard to cut? Use a knife. Cut it, tear it, pull it apart, swallow it down.

I can't, she says. Why? It's barbecue! Have fun! Don' be shy. See, the chicken wings are juicy. And red. Red with blood or topping sauce, she asks. Don' know, they say and bite at it. They forget her after a while. She sits there, and looks about the table with hungry yet restricted eyes.

Jokes are made, memories are shared, bonds are made, but the lamb is torn. Torn with delicacy. Torn with knives, forks, bony hands and neat napkins. The mirth and slaughter goes by and by.
Finally, she slides her wrist across the table, the fingers seem to steal a bread piece that came as a side dish. All the side dishes are sitting untouched on the table. She gathers them. She applies a layer of green salad and butter to make a two bread piece sandwich. And without any knives, forks or napkins, she grapples with the sandwich and takes a bite.

And now the others stare at her, in wonder.

The first stage is that of uncertainty. You spend most of the time wondering if the other person feels the same way as you do. You run all kinds of tests on your target to evaluate the response factor of love.

And perhaps you do get some feedback. If you don't, you falsely assume it. You at least let your friends believe that you got response from other party. And then you like to stay mesmerized in that hopefulness. You live in hope. Like the rest of the humanity. Only to discover later when the other party realizes that you're coming too close and slaps reality right into your face.

Most love stories end here.

This is the middle stage on journey of love. You spend most of the time exploring other party's ideas, hobbies, body parts, what not. Because you got lucky, and your doubt has been transformed into truth, and there's mutual agreement between two parties. There could be some factor of compromise involved as well.

This stage lasts for a very short period of time, again the magnitude of time is a complex function of culture. But no matter how short this stage may be, this indeed is what people like to call "being in love". That is when their hormones are in resonance.

Blessed are those love stories that make the most out of it.

It is the last and rarest phase. Not a lot of people make it, unless forced to via arranged marriages. After phase II, it's hard for the mates of any species to stick together. There is hardly any motivation. There is nothing new or fresh in the relationship.

This is the true test of the so-called "love". It's when you really get to "know" a person. You know that you prolly aren't that crazy about that person the way you were when you're in stage II. Things are kindof dormant.

But there's something else in this stage, something much stronger. After making it so far, after all those years down the road, after all this history with the other party, you know that your heart aches to be away from that person. You just can't live without that person. It's like a disease which has no cure. You have now developed a addictive liking towards a person. There is this passive realization.

There is this knowing.

---

So, which stage are you at?

A pleasant wind caressing my face, playing with locks of my hair, hair that I throw aside from my eyes, eyes that look down at the vast ground, ground where the green grass is, green grass growing out of the new land, pushing from beneath the dead, flat leaves that dance upon the busy road, busy road with convertible cars, open hoods and crazy girls, girls with twinkling eyes, red hair and low skirts, low skirts frolicking upon their long legs looking down upon red, pink sandals arguing with chastity, chastity of those naked trees with hungry branches, branches that sharply point the sky like lightning bolts, like tridents waiting to be taken, to be accepted, accepted by a new life, by a new season, by new leaves on their branches and bodies, bodies that roam around in two's, like couples, having faces, faces that smile. And lo! The spring has come.