Whenever she died a little bit inside, she got up and went out and down by the canal; or maybe the zoo where seals used to bark instead of the dogs you’d normally hear in any normal neighbourhood out on its ear; away from the centres of command and control.
And she preferred this kind of being: the beauty and quiet. In the absence of her lover, she knew what to do: she knew she could watch the raindrop, or dew, as her desserts – no longer rich – deserted her so sadly.
And the stars in her head, which made her life almost bearable, and made her absence of love just about understandable, were reflected that morning in the sun in the sky: a sun of majestic cool which now clearly ruled over everything she was, and everything she had ever wanted to be.
Yes. Love sucked … but sadly not this one. And so this was how it ended: a long slow sloping crawl to the days of childish return. And in the meantime she vowed she would never let on. And in the meantime she swore in the language of her motherland she’d never return to her softer, kinder, opener side.
For this was exactly why love didn’t suck for her. Nobody needed a woman who cried.