So I’m back home now, with my hair in rollers and packed into a hooded dryer. I’ve just taken my Metformin, and in an hour will take progesterone. Surprisingly, I haven’t felt the need to raid the trying to conceive or other baby sites. I did so much of that years ago, back when I used to hopefully think I was pregnant at the slightest twinge. The difference? Back then there were real men. Real as in they existed, which is not necessarily a testament to their manliness. Even when I had sex with condoms, I would hope that they’d break. It never happened. And now my man comes in a tiny vial.
I have given up entirely on the possibility of marriage. It’s interesting that I no longer fantasize about that. I am in love with my best friend, but it is unrequited — he is not in love with me, nor will he ever be, and as far as our friendship is concerned, he means more to me than I to him. So maybe, if it were him, and if he could bring himself to be monogamous, and if he weren’t married already, then marriage, yes. Those “ifs” will outlast my lifetime. They are impossible. So I settle for the piece of him that I have, which are like flashes of light in the darkness, and struggle not to let my love consume me.
He asked me recently why I fight it. I told him it was hard to explain, but it is not. It’s like burning. Falling in love is like bursting into flames. I am absolutely consumed with him. He is in my thoughts always. At night, I hear his name as I fall asleep. He will be my last great love as far as men are concerned. After him there will be no other. So I burn, but it has lately become tempered. I no longer touch him with burning fingers, try to envelope him from afar. He is no less on my mind, I just don’t convey it to him as much.
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