If I knew her, I couldn’t do it. If I knew her, the fantasy would burst like a troll in sunlight. True, I have seen her once. But her face made no lasting impression.
Now my masochistic heart paints pictures in my head.
She is strong and intelligent. She is funny. She is in touch with her dark side. She is attractive. Not strikingly beautiful, but stylish and athletic with a decent face. She loves him. And he loves her.
She is me. But I’m not her.
I couldn’t go through with it. Yet I couldn’t not want it. And I still want it. I got three weeks of foreplay, then nothing.
Nothing, but the constant yearning for something that is no longer available. Something that would eventually have made the withdrawal even worse. Something that I could not bring myself to do, no matter how much I wanted to.
Something else held me back. Maybe my heart. Maybe it has its own special immune system to protect itself from being shattered.
Maybe. But the rest of me still wants that next fix.