I looked at him with questions. We’ve had this conversation before. After being his garbage can for a decade, I figure we have covered every topic possible. Perhaps twice. This topic, six times. At least. No, this outburst is not a way to express my boredom. It’s just a recount of how everything went. Every time.
He’s in love. With whom is irrelevant. There’s always someone to fall in love with out there. But he always pays a price. This time is no different. And why should it be? You always fall in love with the faith that this will last forever. That this is it.
He has been in this mess at least six times. But then again, with every opportunity the illusion of forever lingers. And you can never be an expert at falling in love, at falling out of love.
With him, falling in love does not come with elation. It comes with a storm of awareness and realization that he is lacking. Love comes to him the way women magazines affect women this days. Falling in love comes with the devotion to the subject, and the awareness that he’s too short, too awkward, his nose too pinched, his eyes not intense enough.
This time is no different. The cynic in me is wondering how many love, before he stumbles into someone that loves him back. If ever.
No, it’s not that he’s not worth loving. He is. But I’m biased. He’s my friend, my treasure. But how far is your assessment of yourself from the person the world sees? Did the women see him the way they saw himself?
You guessed it. This is just cathartic outburst of a frustrated friend.