There was a pettiness to the way she acted. When there was love, there was everything. Except idealism as she didn’t like that. But when doom had arrived, even love couldn’t change how she felt. Or was it change that had made its presence felt? Not doom. I wondered. She jumped with glee in one instance, masquerading her anger and pain. In the next, her anger and pain surfaced but never enough to rattle the love boat we shared. So how was I supposed to know?
The mistakes she made weren’t mistakes to others. She hid; she covered up; she went on. Till it piled up and she couldn’t take no more. Then doom or change arrived. Her silence spoke she imagined. Only to find it didn’t. She needed to voice her discomfort. I couldn’t read her mind, she figured. She didn’t blame me. I did a little.
She was full of contradictions. She flirted with disaster and eternity, at once. She dismissed forever. Mostly. It was complicated. Even for her. It was also simple and non-controversial.
Maybe she thought about everything too much. Maybe she thought about everything too little. Maybe she said too much. Maybe she said too little.
It was all possible and obviously so. It could all be wrong, too. Would she ever know?
I doubt I will.