Descend

There is something oddly comforting about sitting in a room as it slowly gets dark. Too lethargic to get up and switch any lights on, or rather, not feeling the point in illuminating the corners of this rented apartment, I let darkness creep in. Perhaps it allows us to feel as if we're not really here. My presence doesn't affect this space, let it get darker for all I care. This is what the room would be like if I wasn't here. It feels peaceful, detached, calming. 

Last night I heard voices screaming in my head as I toss and turn at two in the morning. They screamed deafening pleas of panic and frustration, of loss and loneliness. My heart pounded as my breathing got increasingly labored. I was simultaneously freezing and burning, I was both shivering and paralyzed, I was both starving and nauseous. The oppressive silence of the room drills into my skull as I heard myself begin to sob. 

Without thinking, I reached for my phone. The glare of the screen sent piercing stabs into my tear stained eyes. I had already dialed the extension for an international call, but then stopped myself before I hit the green icon.

Deep breaths. 

I lowered my phone back down, fearing what awaited me at the other end. I don't know if the sound of your voice would lift me or plunge me deeper into my apparent lunacy. I don't know if the call would even go through. I don't know if I can still expect you to be available for me at any hour. I don't know if it's right for me to put you in a position where you can only worry from afar. 

It's almost a month. I thought it was supposed to get easier.

The Eye Doctor

Not once in my life have I willingly stepped into an optometrist's, begging for (and paying for) an eye exam. Growing up with notoriously bad eyesight has given me a Pavlovian response to eye doctors: Every time I enter a spectacles shop, I swear I still hear the exasperated sigh of my mother, worried and frustrated about my increasing short-sightedness. Other kids hide report cards, I hide letters from my school requesting me to go for eye check-ups. (Not saying that I don't hide report cards. I've been falsifying report cards using photoshop, printing it on official school paper with the relevant letterheads and giving that to my parents to sign since I was a wee little kid. But that's another deviously evil story for another time.)

The US has the weirdest laws. Case in point: In the state of Wisconsin, it is illegal to serve apple pies in restaurants without cheese. Another example: It is illegal for vendors to sell contact lenses without a doctor's prescription. And what does a doctor's prescription cost in the US, when it is offered as a completely free service in Singapore? A whopping $105, just for a guy (who isn't even in a white doctor's coat, I might add) to tell you something you already know. I used to just circumvent this utterly pointless procedure by ordering my contact lenses directly from the UK, but dire circumstances involving my last two pairs of daily contacts forced my hand. With great reluctance, I scheduled an appointment with an optometrist to have my eyes looked at. 

My main source of reluctance wasn't actually paying the fee, it was the fear of hearing more bad news from the doctor. The 'little red house on a green hill' that you have to focus on through that machine has been haunting me for more than ten years, and I hated having to pay for that ordeal again. Fuck the little red house and fuck its magical focusing and unfocusing trick. 

"How does this ... compare to this ..." The optometrist dials his alien ware left and right. I despised his chart full of random letters and I despised his condescending tone. "Ooh, you were using the same degree when your eyes are not of the same degree! Ooh, you're screwing up your eyes by doing that!" What a know-it-all. 

He should really be more specific with his questions too. "What's the difference between these two?"

"Well, the light diffuses in a way that makes it appear more aura-ly," I elaborate. 

"Just ... tell me if it's clearer or more blurry." He sighs. Well excuse me for trying to give you a more concrete answer. You should really be catering to preschoolers if that's the caliber of answers you're looking for, doctor-man. I squirm uncomfortably in his 'big-chair', as he calls it (probably a medical term), craning my neck to look through the eye holes of the device that's clearly positioned too low for me, straining to guess the row of gibberish.

"P, Q, T, 2, %, #, @ ... ?" Nope, he wants me to try again.

"I, D, K, L, O, L?" I didn't think so. He's getting impatient and starts looking at his wristwatch. The final contact lenses he ends up giving me may or may not be randomly grabbed from a nearby shelf. If there's one thing I'm getting out of this is that I should definitely consider becoming an optometrist myself if this is all there is to it. 

As it turns out, I needed slightly different powers for both my eyes, a bit higher for my left and a bit lower for my right, but was using the average power of both my eyes in the past. Does that really harm my eyes? Who can really say, for sure. What I was doing in the past definitely makes sense mathematically. The plus side is, I no longer have to put myself through that again, now that I have a US doctor's approval (however much that's worth) to purchase contacts. Awesome, now I'm free to finger and poke my eyes however I wish to.

Quelqu'un ma dit, en anglais

Someone told me that life, everything he knows

It would all pass, like a withering rose

Someone told me that time is only so brief

Making fools of us, making fun of our grief

But someone said to me

That, you still love me

Someone said to me, that you still love me

Is this possible?

Someone told me that destiny is mean

Gives me a taste then takes it from me

Seems that happiness can only be found

By the ones willing to crash to the ground

But someone said to me

That, you still love me

Someone said to me, that, you still want me

Is this possible,

Is this possible?

I'm not making this up, he really said it to me

It was midnight when he appeared to me

I'm still hearing the voice, but it's slipping away

“He loves you, it's a secret, don't tell him I told you”

You see, someone said to me

That you still love me, he really said to me

That you still love me, please say it's possible

Someone told me that life, everything he knows

It would all pass, like a withering rose

Someone told me that time, is only so brief

Making fools of us, making fun of our grief

But someone said to me

That, you still love me

Someone said to me, that, you still want me

Is this possible?

An Instructional Manual

Throw yourself into decorating your new apartment. Attack every inch of empty space with vigor and cover them up with framed versions of everything you love. Make sure there isn't any place for your eyes to rest on, lest your mind starts drifting to less desirable places. Gleefully snatch up burgundy towels and bathmats, hope to create a poor man's version of Barbra Streisand's bathroom filled with her favorite colors. Spend up to $150 on items you deem 'necessities', because every apartment deserves a welcome rug with a mustache adornment and the word 'bonjour'. Spend another $150 the following day because you need something to keep yourself from spiraling into a deathtrap of old memories.

Attend the first day of class. Be amused at how the most interesting thing about the lecture are the beautiful stone walls that remind you of a dungeon cellar. Struggle to stay conscious despite the professor's best attempts at hypnotizing you with his unbearably drone-y voice. Laugh along to his jokes to make him feel better about being a 65-year-old teaching a class of youthful students with brighter futures than he. Laugh along to convince the people around you that you're still capable of laughter. Laugh along to release endorphins, because you read somewhere that they can cure heartbreak. 

Show up to the first party of the semester. Stand uncomfortably by the side and marvel at the seeming statistical improbability that all these idiots made it to college. Wish you didn't have to be this negative, because everyone's here to have a good time. Pretend the alcohol you're consuming is doing anything for your mood. Stop thinking about how you were the one who got on that plane and left the people you truly fit in with so you could come here and pretend. Tell yourself that this forced social immersion isn't the only way to keep yourself from feeling more alone than you ever had in your life.

Continue to text inappropriate content to the one you've agreed to walk away from. Force yourself to contain your excitement at any sign of a response. Look around the room and imagine what your life would be like if the two of you lived together. Picture how you would arrange both of your possessions in a harmonious yet individualistic manner. Know that you can never force someone to make that kind of change for you. Hope that one day someone might want to. Steadfastly refuse to let go.

Tell yourself you would survive another week. And keep going.

Rosy Roses and Violet Violets

Roses are red
Violets are blue...
Except when they're yellow
They both can be white too   

 

Roses can be rosy
Violets can be violet
Any color you desire
There's one for each palette

Sometimes they are lavender
And lavenders are lavender
So if violets are lavender
What are violet lavenders?

If you wish to bid farewell
Or deliver a death threat
Nothing like a jet black rose
To induce a little sweat

Peachy roses are peachy
Sincerity it conveys
Just gotta find the one girl
Who wouldn't laugh in your face

Roses are dear
Violets are cheap
If I spend a little more
Would you let met watch you sleep

Red roses and blue violets
Deathly unoriginal
Here's a pretty hybrid rose
Red-blue hue for my lovely beau

Products of a Jetlagged Mind

Here I am, still jet-lagged at 4am. What else is there to do at such an ungodly hour other than fall hopelessly in love with one's own photogenic face and photo-process it beyond recognition? Thus I present to you... my brand new album art! When I eventually get famous, I want people to remember me as the benevolent, multi-talented legend that creates his own album art rather than make some underling do it. 

 

Love Sobriety Act 2

Teddy
The problem with Devon is that he doesn’t think his situation is messed up. Everyone else sees it, but to him it’s ‘tragically beautiful’.

Dr Hartstein

Ah yes, the Relationship Addict. Everything is meaningful to him, everything has a deeper significance, every gesture a declaration of undying passion. These people don’t let go of a relationship for nuts, most of the time clinging on just so they can say that they do indeed have a relationship. “Look at me, I’m wanted.”


Teddy 

That’s exactly what he does!


Devon 

Excuse me?! Since when are dubiously certified ‘doctors’ and theatre geeks qualified to psychoanalyze people’s personal lives? And since we're already on the topic, I would like to point out that this is in fact my very first relationship, and I am most definitely not in 'desperately need' of one.


Janine 

You don’t have to be so defensive, Devon. “The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.”


Devon 

I’m not a damn alcoholic, though I won’t say no to a drink right now.


Janine 

Everyone’s ashamed to admit their problems. For myself, I was especially ashamed to say anything, given the slightly embarrassing turn my failed relationship took. But you know what, I told myself I made a mistake and here I am today, a completely different woman.


Amber 

(Rolls eyes) As opposed to an amateur pornographer.


Janine 

(Shrugs) I wanted to keep him interested.


Devon 

Jesus Christ, now we’re tying pornography to love.


Dr Hartstein

 Let Ms Janine tell the story, Devon. There’s probably something in there you can learn, and maybe you’d recognize your own lewdly self-destructive behaviour. Would save your friend Teddy here a whole lot of trouble if he doesn’t have to clean up the wreckage of yet another relationship just waiting to implode.


Devon

(To Teddy) Is that what you’ve been telling people; that you’re worried about me crying to you when it goes wrong? When have you ever seen me cry over a guy? When Charlotte died, yes I cried for the literate spiders of the world. When Lassie almost dies time and again, I cried for the courageous spirit of the canine species. When have I ever sobbed uncontrollably for a sentient creature? (Teddy looks away.)


Amber 

Are all gay people as gay as you are, or did you work to get this annoying?


Dr Hartstein 

Ms Janine, I’m sure Mr Devon here would love to hear your story.

Devon 

As surprised as I am to hear myself say this, but I really am dying to hear this one.


Janine 

(Takes a breath. Exhales.) Alright. I don’t relish reliving it, so be honoured that I’m once again plunging myself into those memories I swore I would keep suppressed.


Amber 

Oh cry me a fucking river and get on with it.


Janine

Well it started like this. He had previously learned that I didn’t know how to drive, so for our first date, he said he would teach me. It was kinda romantic, you know, him taking me to an empty abandoned lot and letting me drive illegally. Sure, it sounds like the set of a serial-killer movie, but I always say there’s a fine line between downright creepy and downright romantic. The fact that we were breaking the law right beside a church made it all the more thrilling. I loved how much he trusted me, someone who’s never sat in the driver’s seat until that day, to drive his beautiful white car round and round in circles. The fact that it was white made me really quite nervous.


Dr Hartstein

Understandable. I would be too, the redness of a by-passer’s blood would be so obvious on it if you hit someone.


Devon 

I think she was talking about scratches.


Dr Hartstein

(Pause) I don’t see how scratches is a bigger problem than blood.


Janine 

(Interrupting) My point was, I liked how much he trusted me. I guess my first warning sign was the packet of cigarettes I saw in the drink holder. In the past, I would never have dated a smoker. I think they taste acrid when you kiss them and they smell constantly of smoke and they’re not content to die alone through lung cancer and is trying to take us non-smokers with them through second-hand smoke. So I saw the pack of cigs but didn’t mention it till later on, I guess I was not really ready to accept that someone I’ve been having that much fun with was turning out to be a smoker. I was silent pretty much for the whole trip back to civilisation, all the while internally-debating if I was willing to put aside my rules this one time and just go for it. He would be worth it, I tell myself. All lies, of course, but things are only crystal clear in retrospect.


Devon 

I take back what I said about wanting to hear this if all you’re gonna talk about is his smoking.


Amber 

He’s right, can you just skip to the interesting part about your self-taken pornography already?


Janine

We’re getting to it. So that night I decided that just this time, I was going to forget all my stupid rules and self-imposed restrictions. What good are they if all they’re doing is keeping me from happiness?


Dr Hartstein

Yup this is a classic case of a love-influenced mentality, you begin hearing voices laced with demonic-intonations and slowly start believing them.


Janine

Oh they’re demonic alright. I’ve now come to learn that any decision made under the influence would come back to haunt you. His previously hidden psychosis began surfacing in disturbing ways. He would break 3 dates in a row, each time citing ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t do this now. My past is really fucked up (his words, pardon my language) and I’m so messed up now.” I’m like, ohhhkay a simple, ‘Hey I’m busy today’ would have sufficed.


Amber 

Or hey, today I’m banging some other chick.


Janine 

I prayed every day, I said, “Please God, Father in Heaven, I’m a good church goer and a caring daughter. I do some illegal driving now and then, but is that any reason to send a character from the Looney Tunes my way? I know you’re more benevolent than this, please show me he’s not a complete whack job.” The silly thing was, he was the one who had actively pursued me, so all this back and forth lunacy of wanting to, then not wanting to see me was very confusing.


A week later he broke up with me. I had asked him if I was someone to him, and he said, not in the same way that he’s someone to me.


Devon

So you’ve been dumped and now you think people need support groups for being scorned by guys. This is clearly a support group of men-bashers; none of you are what they really classify as a ‘love-addict’.


Janine 

No, that wasn’t the hard part. I had been broken up with before, that wasn’t anything new. The crazy part started after we had broken up. He insisted on remaining friends, though I was less open to that idea. I mean, why do I have to pretend to be okay with everything, with you dating someone else… when I don’t really want to be? We weren’t friends before, so whose benefit is it that I’m really pretending for?


Teddy 

It’s probably a way of making himself feel better.


Devon

Aren’t you the sensitive one today.


Janine

He wasn’t even a possessive boyfriend when we were together, that side of him only manifested after we’ve broken up. I would be hanging out with other male friends of mine, and for whatever reason, he would get really worked up about it. I don’t get what his problem was- he was the one who just wanted to be friends, he was the one who said I wasn’t anyone to him, so where’s he getting off being all possessive about things now? He heard somewhere that I was going to the clubs that night with my other male friends, and that really rubbed him the wrong way. I had eventually decided not to go, I’m also in Alcoholics Anonymous, I’m not ashamed to admit it, so I don’t think getting into that close proximity to martinis and rum was a great idea, especially after a break up. I couldn’t say the same for him, though. He had apparently gone out and gotten himself drunk, then began drunk texting me.


Devon 

Like what?


Janine

Really gross stuff, like how he finds his friend’s pussy tight and warm. Stuff that I had definitely not asked about, and have no intention of entertaining. I replied very curtly to tell him to stop drunk texting me and embarrassing himself. For whatever reason, his already sociopathic tendencies, coupled with a few drinks, bursts forth and reined a rampage of verbal abuse at me. Being a devout church goer and proud brownie scout girl, I absolutely refused to engage in this childish display of crudeness. I did not collect my ‘Friend of the Elderly’ badge by sprouting words like ‘shitmonger’ or ‘fuckweasel’ or ‘Son-of-a-raving-bitch-pussy-monster-cunt-slutface-FUCKTITTYFUCKBITCH!’


(Silence)


Amber 

I am in awe.


Janine

Oh stop looking at me like that, it was just an example of what I don’t say. Anyways, he goes on to say that it’s a pity how his phone still has dirty photos of me, the ones I had sent to him when I was still with him.


Teddy

It’s always the church-going-bible-thumpers you have to watch out for.

Janine 

I’m sure there isn’t anywhere in the Bible that bans the taking and distribution of suggestive photos with a webcam. In fact, I’m pretty sure the word ‘photo’ never appears in the Bible even once.


Amber

I don’t think ‘camwhoring slut’ appears either, but I’m pretty sure it’s at least implied.


Janine

Oh now you’re all high and mighty, Miss Fellatio Universe 2009?


Amber

Look how quickly the church-bitch transforms, it’s fucking incredible.


Dr Hartstein

(Above the noise) Let us remind ourselves that derogative terms do not help us grow and overcome our problems!


Devon

I don’t like where this is going, but I gotta ask. Why did he bring the photos up?


Janine 

He was threatening to post them online. Keep in mind that he was the one who started everything, who gotten jealous over a situation where he has absolutely no right to be, and then betrayed my trust by threatening to post my most intimate photos on the internet.


Amber

If a guy did that to me I would literally tear his goddamned balls out and stain my bare hands with that bastard’s blood.


Devon 

Well, did he do it?


Janine 

Oh you can bet on Moses’ great waving arms he did.


Devon 

I’m not sure I get that analogy.


Janine

You know, Moses has a great arm. He waves it and the oceans part. The point is, he really did post it on Facebook, and had the audacity to tag me. Thank the heavens it wasn’t one where my face was shown, but still! It literally knocked the breath out of me as I scrambled to block and report that photo to the relevant authorities. Facebook should really have a huge red panic button for situations like this. ‘Please state the nature of your complaint’. My BARE NAKED BUTTOCKS are on Facebook, is that enough of a reason to complain? Mark Zuckerberg has clearly never faced this problem before. Then again, if I had Zuckerberg’s butt, neither would I.


Devon 

Fair point. What eventually happened to the photos?


Janine

There was just the one, and of course I untagged it within seconds, so none of my friends saw it. I assume it was on his own wall for a longer period of time. He eventually removed it when he was finally sober in the morning, and tried apologizing for it. Of course, both he and I know that we can never have any sort of relationship ever again after what had happened, be it friendship or otherwise. I threatened to obtain a restraining order against him if I ever had the displeasure of seeing him again, and since then he hasn’t contacted me.


Dr Hartstein

(Wiping a tear) Such a courageous story from a feisty survivor of love. You see what happens when you let love tell you what to do, Devon? When you decide that you can forget the very reasons you had rules and restrictions for dating in the first place? You wind up with your big fat bottom all over Facebook. No offence to your buttocks, darhlin, I’m sure it’s reasonably toned and any touch of flabbiness would only add to the perk factor.

Devon

But there’s something I don’t get. A ‘survivor’, like the good doctor here describes, doesn’t seem like the type that would declare love the enemy and swear it off all together.


Janine

(Smiles) Oh no, darhling. I’m not here for me.


Devon 

What do you mean?


Janine

I’m here to explore why love has made him do the things he did, honey. It’s his destructive tendencies that are hurting the people around him, not mine. The only thing I’m guilty of is making people love me too much.
(sighs) I’m sure I’m the only one in therapy for being too beautiful.

Lost Luggage, Lost Love

I stare at the luggage carosel, willing with all the make-believe powers of Jean Grey I wish I had, willing it to start turning again. Go on, I whisper to it with my completely real telepathic abilities, hoping to seduce the slabs of rubber into movement. Go on and make that whirring, whining noise, and start turning again. You have to. Because my bag is NOT FUCKING HERE!

"All luggage from Flight UA8650 has now arrived. " That fucking lying voice in the sky. "Passengers whose bags did not come through the carosel, please submit a baggage claim at the Baggage Claim Office. Thank you."

I put myself together and calmly walk over to the door with the big blue sign that says Baggage Claim. I act as if this happens all the time and that I'm not insanely worried about having to spend the rest of the week naked because all my clothes went missing. The slight tremble in my voice as I submit my claim betrays my portrayed serenity.

"You motherfuckers locate my damn suitcase or prepare to have your bitchcunt lardass sodomized ten ways till Sunday."

I'm such a people person.

After promising to deliver my suitcase to my new apartment, in the event that it arrives tonight, I pull out my cellphone to make a call, but instead of the usual AT&T logo at the top, I see 'SIM not provisioned'. I believe that is what the people in the telecommunications field say in lieu of 'fuck you lol.' As it turns out, my bank hasn't been transferring money to pay off my cellphone bills for the past two months when I'm not in Madison, which led to AT&T cancelling my service. And the reason for my bank not transferring money is not completely clear to me. Sure, there's the tiny matter of my bank account not having any money, but apart from that it's completely flabbergasting to me.

So I make my way to the AT&T store, located shitmiles away from downtown, only to discover that I'm still unable to use my cards to pay that bill. My dad's transferred a sum of money to me, but it's stuck in my Savings account and not accessible to me. I decide to go to my bank first to have my Checkings account reopened, only to discover that they close at 1pm on Saturdays and slack off on Sundays. Is that what they teach them at Banking School, to let your customers down like that? Fine then, I'll settle it on Monday. Except I'm left with something like twenty dollars in cash, no way to withdraw any more, no way to tell any friends about it, and essentially standing in my last change of clothes.

I'm a strong person, I'd like to believe. Go on and take my clothes, my clean underwear, my money, my phone, take it all. I can live without all that frivolous nonsense. But an unforseen side effect to having my luggage delayed was that my Macbook charger was delayed with it. I squeeze the last 10 minutes of the available battery in a mad attempt to accomplish as much online as I can, and when my screen finally blacked out, I sat before my computer in a foggy daze. I am unable to comprehend this. I nudge it like Simba prodding Mufasa, willing it to come back to me.

I sit alone in the darkness of my new apartment, the evidence of moving-in cluttered around me like abandoned soldiers waiting to die on a battlefield. I wade around the myraid of cardboard boxes, refusing to acknowledge the irony of how I'm surrounded by the warmest winter coats money can buy, yet without the simplest of briefs I am unable to function.

I finally see the message I have been waiting for at 3am. The decision I asked for. Sleep was still deprived to me due to jet lag, and with bated breath and bloodshot eyes I read the few lines that finally did me in. After everything, I'm back to being single. The sense of relief I expected from no longer having to worry about whether or not this could survive did not come to me. Although I understood it, I still cried  harder than I ever had in my adult life. I cried for the memories, the disappointment, the lost possibilities, the fear, for everything that's gone wrong since my return. The deepest pain comes from knowing that I'm still loved, from knowing that I could have had it all if only the circumstances were different.

I love you, so goodbye.

Love Sobriety Act 1

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Introlude

I remember that night well. 

We were sitting there on my bed, not doing anything dirty or anything like that, that part came later, but we were just talking. You had so much to say, so much you wanted to express, and I was content just lazing by you and listening to your voice. You were surprised that I got all your references; I was delighted that you was using those references. Movie quotes, lyrical analogies, stand-up material, the kind of references only someone who spent a lifetime watching, listening and enjoying the same… you know.. stuff… would understand. It’s like how it’s much easier talking to an old friend than a new one, because I don’t have to explain any of the back-story. One ‘look’, one ‘gesture’, both of us would instantly ‘get it’. It’s exactly like that with you. You have this way of telling a really detailed story as a way of getting to an obscure point, which may or may not be relevant to the story at all, but the engrossed manner in which you describe it just grabs and captivates me. 

There you were, sitting at the edge of my bed as if afraid to come closer. This adorable yet threateningly beautiful creature, here on my bed, and for the first time in a long time, I was unsure of myself. I felt like a crippled predator, so consumed by my hunger, yet unable to make a move. I take in the way you shut your eyes when you laugh, the way you smile with the right corner of your mouth, the way your brown eyes glint, both warm and dangerous.

I knew I had to taste your lips the moment you walked through my door. It was probably a good hour or two before you finally did something about it, though. We were discussing our favorite Adele songs, best way to arrange glow-in-the-dark stars, Kathy Griffin’s Gwyneth impersonation, whatever it was. You said, ‘I’m just going to do this now, because I don’t know how else to do it, and I’m afraid I’ll miss my chance.’

So then you moved closer, leaned in with your eyes closed, and in my head I’m going ‘God-fucking-damn, about time’ and my heart was going ‘God-fucking-damn you're coming closer’ and my nose was going ‘God-fucking-damn you smell so good’ and my lips were going ‘Never let go.’
 

I was hooked from that moment. We must have made out for no less than five hours before we finally fell asleep at four in the morning, lips sore as hell. I was deliriously contented, yet a seed of unease gnawed at my insides. You said that you don’t want this to end tonight, and I voiced similar sentiments. I could sense it moving dangerously close to something like the beginning of a relationship, yet we both know that I only have two months here. We came to an agreement that neither of us would hold back, and allow ourselves to be swept away by whatever witchery it is that sweeps people away when they’re in relationships.

I fell much harder for you than I initially thought I could. Two months, in and out, metaphorically, though sometimes literally. I can handle this for sure. But each time I meet you I feel like I’ve known you forever, and I just wonder how I could ever get used to not having you in my life anymore. Two months is an achievement for me, I’ve never had someone stay with me for more than two weeks, neither have I liked anyone for such an extended period of time. I’m sometimes gripped by the fear that lightning isn’t going to strike twice, that I’m being forced to prematurely cash in my one lucky ticket at the most inconvenient juncture in my life.

Three nights later you said you loved me. I asked you repeatedly if you really meant it, and when I was convinced, I uttered those words back to you. The first time I ever said it to anyone. That night we did it to Carla Bruni’s album, Comme si de rien n'était. In English it means ‘As If Nothing Had Happened’, which I thought was appropriately ironic. You had sealed yourself in my history, and there was nothing anyone can do now to rewrite that. There was no better way I could have done it the first time; it was as if I had planned the whole pornographic extravaganza.

That was the night I fell in love.