Had he even dared to love her? The question could just as easily be posed the opposite way. Her friend had reminded her of an evening, the first evening when their eyes danced together and their conversation and laughter filled the room. They had talked about Woody Allen and she had been surprised to find that his favorite Allen films were the same as hers, these often neglected films that normally garnered no response from her interlocutors. They were "Love and Death" and "Zelig", appropriately. She could only say that now, that they were appropriate, but it did seem to be somewhat a premonition of the intensity, the dynamics, and the postures that were to follow.
She hated how much she thought of him, could even see somewhat objectively how ridiculous a position it put her in, how absurd it was that she felt this strongly for this strange young man.
Summer was coming to its end, already two thirds through, and she was still thinking about him, still unable to cast him from her mind. The thought of going to church painfully early in the morning, still somewhat a novel idea to her, suddenly became terribly attractive. To pray to God to release her from him, to unwind the bonds the bonds that drew her mind towards him in every idle moment. If it was not right, it was not right. It was she who had said that initially.
She felt the desire to fast, to purge her body of everything in relation to the physical world, to live as pure spirit until whatever affliction that had come onto her had passed. She was clinging to the world still, grasping onto anything that could give her even a temporary sense of security, of stillness. She wanted to be done with him, to sacrifice any thoughts of a potential future to the present moment, to regain her life as her own instead of the facade of a life, the impatient waiting of a life that she had inhabited like a stranger for the past few months.
He would leave after this year anyhow. This though was both excruciating and somewhat a salve to her pains, but a year was also a long time. What would the year be like? He would be living further away, it was not likely they would run into one another with the same frequency that they initially had. Perhaps they would separate forever, truly, and only be left with the disintegrating memories of a strange relationship they once shared.
She hated how much she thought of him, could even see somewhat objectively how ridiculous a position it put her in, how absurd it was that she felt this strongly for this strange young man.
Summer was coming to its end, already two thirds through, and she was still thinking about him, still unable to cast him from her mind. The thought of going to church painfully early in the morning, still somewhat a novel idea to her, suddenly became terribly attractive. To pray to God to release her from him, to unwind the bonds the bonds that drew her mind towards him in every idle moment. If it was not right, it was not right. It was she who had said that initially.
She felt the desire to fast, to purge her body of everything in relation to the physical world, to live as pure spirit until whatever affliction that had come onto her had passed. She was clinging to the world still, grasping onto anything that could give her even a temporary sense of security, of stillness. She wanted to be done with him, to sacrifice any thoughts of a potential future to the present moment, to regain her life as her own instead of the facade of a life, the impatient waiting of a life that she had inhabited like a stranger for the past few months.
He would leave after this year anyhow. This though was both excruciating and somewhat a salve to her pains, but a year was also a long time. What would the year be like? He would be living further away, it was not likely they would run into one another with the same frequency that they initially had. Perhaps they would separate forever, truly, and only be left with the disintegrating memories of a strange relationship they once shared.
