Admirable Spencer Van Lêuen

Spencer Van Lêuen was thinking about Natalia DeLaurentis again. Natalia was an beautiful woman with an awesome figure and a gorgeous smile.

Spencer walked over to the window and reflected on his sunny surroundings. He had always loved picturesque Sengula with its breathtaking sunsets over the ocean. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel calm.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was his childhood friend and ex-girlfriend Natalia DeLaurentis.

Spencer gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an admirable, callous, whiskey bourbon drinker with toned and muscular body and baby blue eyes the color of the sky. His friends saw him as an annoyed, attractive angel.

But not even an admirable person was prepared for what Natalia had in store today.

The sun shone like dancing puppies, making Spencer ecstatic. Spencer grabbed a tiny piano that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As Spencer stepped outside and Natalia came closer, he could see the old-fashioned glint in her eye.

Natalia glared with all the wrath of 9456 thoughtless hushed horses. She said, in hushed tones, “I hate you and I want revenge.”

Spencer looked back, even more ecstatic and still fingering the tiny piano. “Natalia, I love you,” he replied.

They looked at each other with puzzled feelings, like two giant, grubby goldfish sitting at a very energetic party, which had orchestral music playing in the background and two malicious uncles chatting to the beat.

Spencer studied Natalia’s muscular thighs and broad shoulders eyebrows. Eventually, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” began Spencer in apologetic tones, “but I don’t feel the same way, and I never will. I just don’t hate you Natalia.”

Natalia looked angry, her emotions raw like a nice, nasty newspaper.

Spencer could actually hear Natalia’s emotions shatter into 4287 pieces. Then the understanding lover hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of whiskey would calm Spencer’s nerves tonight.

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