The Fall From Grace

We met in the nadir of my cynicism, in the chasms of my despair. I had sworn myself never to love again, not to cross that boundary. I had not loved in a long time. I had barely even liked. I was not quite bound to chastity, but certainly contrary to falling in love, and the ties that bind thereby.

The first date left me doting and imprudent, and I chastised myself for my haste. I abhorred my own ability to love so frivolously, to allow myself to grow attached within such minimal time constraints. And I feared the repercussions, and longed for an escape.

In essence, I did not throw myself into love; I ran from it. And yet the consequence was that I fell, uncontrollably, into the depths of That Which Is A Cunt.

He proved himself the perfect gentleman; he contradicted every cliché I’d ever resolved. Until, after our first sexual encounter, once I’d decided to take it to the bridge and waver every vow I’d ever made in denial of love, he solemnly declared:

“I’ve just come out of a year-long relationship; I’m not looking for anything serious.”

I wanted to scream. I restrained every instinct in me to slap and shout and abuse and throw him out of my bedroom. Why now?

But I did not rise to it. Instead, I ignored my usual defiant streak, and laughed, and said, “Let’s just see how it goes.”

Those famous words.

A few weeks later he declared undying love, on the verge of tears, fearing I would not reciprocate. I wavered, fearing disclosing my own emotions, for I had ardently loved him from the moment we met, and prohibited my own admission.

And so I loved, without valiance or courage, but with trust and hope. To this day I hope, doubt and ponder. Love is not unconditional nor dependent on complete trust or conviction, only based on emotion, faith and confidence. And I’ll continue to try.

Because love is a cunt, but life without love is more so.