All he was aware of was her. He was aware of her face, of the dress she wore, the distance between them. In this gap, in all the words that he had yet to say to her, was the promise of a great life. His heart was beating slowly but hard. He had never felt so sure of himself, so bewildered by the ease of what he was about to do.
A friend once asked him, “How does she make you feel?”
“She reminds me of winter,” he said.
“You hate winter. You hate the cold,” this friend replied.
There’s this mostly unknown writer who is found in a cafe with a former lover of his. From the way he talks, he seems to be made of words and sadness and little else. A suffering face, clothes a bit out of style. Legs crossed. He listens to her talk about what was what while she was no longer his.
Last night, I was reading an article and stumbled upon an interesting statistic: the average woman kisses fifteen men during her life. I told my girlfriend that, and she asked me how many girls I had kissed.
To be honest, I’ve always thought it to be quite futile to count such things. Not that I find the pursuit of love to be trivial by any means. Quite the opposite. But what difference does it matter how many girls a man kisses? And if it does matter, why does it matter?
“I will not live without love.” – Vincent van Gogh
Falling in love is easy. Too easy sometimes. We fall in love with someone who’s a little bit different than all the others we have met before, we fall in love when someone tells us something new about ourselves, we fall in love with the way someone acts or talks, we fall in love with people who have traits that are similar or exactly the opposite of ours.