I have been lucky in love, for I – by sheer chance – have found a man who loves me.
Before he came along, there was a pattern: drunken nights followed by unsafe sex followed by loveless mornings. Oh, I was in love each time, though. In almost every case, I had dreamed up people that did not exist, imagined the ideal where the opposite was true.
(I wonder if any of you are given to similar habits.)
How do I feel at the end of the story? Strangely, not used, not regretful, just that it was all wasted time.
Small price to pay for your fantasies, really, but then again, it’s a miracle that I escaped in one piece. So may I recommend that in love – as in everything else – go by the actions and not the words.