What is Love (or the Bar Brawl story)

If I had to think about my previous lovers, they seem to melt into each other like candle wax drippings congealed on an old bottle of chianti. There's the Muslim, the Italian and the German. What would happen if they all walked into a bar? Would they each buy me a drink and vie for my affection?

In the story I would write, they would all end up in a brawl. Each a fighting cock, ruffling feathers and one-upping each other. They would show me and, more importantly, each other, that one was indeed more worthy. Perhaps a Muslim jab, an Italian punch and then a German kick? Tables, chairs, and emotions, all askew. All this, because of me. Wouldn't that be grand? And me?--well, I'd feign indignity. How could you, I'd say. Then I'd most likely end up with the bartender. C'est la vie, mes cheris!

But this is a story already written. This is about love. Love that twists and wrenches after the proverbial honeymoon is over. There are no knights or distressed damsels. Nonetheless, if you do end up with Mr. Right, despite the rough spots and broken glass, there's always the promise of a happily ever after around the bend.