“… I can tell the difference between things; I’m not an idiot, but an idiot in love! …”: am I being haunted?
I remember that earlier – far too early – she’d asked me about the book I was reading. It was a disappointing recommendation from an acquaintance, which centred on the torment of a man who’d lived a very full life and hated his father. And who deeply regrets his feelings, recounting his memories and analysing them. I told her about it, so briefly that I admit I was almost ‘dry’ about it, though not rude, of course. Should I have mentioned that it was ‘disappointing’? She asked me to tell her more about it when I’d finished. Yes, I hadn’t finished it, and I never did; the reading was tedious and, at times, vulgar. (Exactly.) I never did what she asked, as I simply forgot.
There was one occasion when I offered to carry her things, which were heavy for her build and her trembling hands. She politely declined, saying that at that moment she couldn’t ‘be accepting help’. I found it amusing, to myself. I didn’t insist, but on a few other occasions—which can be counted on the fingers of one hand—I offered again. (Without success.) That period would mark the last time we were ‘on good terms’ with one another.
I detest the sky; it’s always beautiful from here, with my feet firmly on the ground, but detestable when your wings are clipped, preventing you from flying above it.