It’s six months now, and I am still burning, possessed by my unrequited love for the young man with Liz Taylor’s violet eyes. I struggled for months to at least become friends: it was ok, a few dinner dates, a few vernissages, some arthouse movies. He’s lovely, in these occasions: funny, snarky, chivalrous, amazing manners. A sexy, throaty accent from another place. The young man is going places.
Then I go home to my husband, and why shouldn’t I, he loves me, while Violet Eyes doesn’t and never will. But a text message from him is a jolt through my heart, and sorry, husband, I care for you deeply but we ran out of jolts more or less a decade ago.
I am feeling more alive than ever. Doing all the pathetically obvious things: gym, a makeover. But he will never love me. He will never even *like* me more than he does now.
Because he’s 35.
And I’m 50.
And I’m pathetic.