Dear T,
These confessions are true.
I look to be the woman who gets attached to the men she has sex with. Women are that way you know, an emotional lot, it’s the chemicals that are released after an orgasm, I’ve heard, that leaves the poor things so confused, as though our minds process every neuron flash in a vacuum, completely out of context from any other thought. Although notice N never comes up at all in this way. Stopping talking to him was simple, like a shrug. And luckily the shrug was mutual, because he had his chance if he really wanted to and he disappeared just as easy.
But to you I really was attached to begin with, from your first email to me, and I could not make much sense of it, when there was nothing really to build on, nowhere we could go really.
A voice suspiciously like my mother’s is whispering again to me, always, about equal partnerships, common life goals, compatible and complementary personalities. I don’t know if these exist, I don’t know how much of this I want. But I do know we are not any of that.
Forgive me for the continued indulgence, but I have tried to picture you meeting my family, I have tried to imagine sharing a house, I have tried to see myself living with you. My mind recoils like rubber from these thoughts. I tip-toe around you always, you see, on edge, try to stand tall around your exacting, looming self.
I cannot marry myself to Teacher. I cannot seem to move you from that title. I know you cannot move me either.
I know you love me too, but that doesn't matter, because it is nowhere near the same admiration, same depth I you. I know you don’t write to me in your head, and don’t spend the tiniest fraction of the time that I do thinking about you.
( Love is easy, after all, and there are too many kinds.)
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