He came to see me. It was the summer of 85. I was still a writer. Let me rephrase that: I was a great writer. New York City and I were madly in love and I had finally been accepted. I thought I had it all; most great writers thought that way. So much was happening everyday that I couldn’t stop writing. It was as if I were a wheel that wouldn’t stop rolling. The roads would never end; they’d forever continue to open a new path for me, with new stories in every corner. I was so in love with the city that I forgot him. And I figured that he probably had forgotten me. So when he rang my doorbell one summer evening as I was enjoying a piece of chocolate, I was shocked. But he was there. Standing in front of me with the same smile that he’d worn ten years earlier. And we said hello and I fell in love with him all over again…
Don’t be fooled though, I was only playing with words. I didn’t fall in love again. No, that time had passed and I had moved on with a half broken heart. I say half because he never really gave me his heart. In other words, falling in love or its idea was all in the head of a writer. Nothing had happened, nothing had been said or done. In fact, everything was in my head. Everything.
But it was a little more complicated than that. I cannot say that he felt nothing at all because I don’t know, I never asked and he never said. What I did know, without a doubt, was that he cared for me, a lot, and perhaps loved me on his own terms. Whether or not he was in love, I cannot say. I was young so I did think that he was in love. Nothing seemed impossible to me.
To be continued...