The number may have been write or rong – he was unclear. What’s absolutely certain is whoever the number did belong to, it didn’t have a voicemail.
And so the mad pursuit finally ended as it always would: with an appropriately damp whimper, not a joyous bang of … whatever bangs should reasonably consist of.
As it had always been likely to end, he now felt.
No fences to mend; no love to chew over; no neighbourly thoughts on the past.
And it was all for the best, in the end he considered. For whilst the beautiful photo he’d stumbled across today of the beautiful woman he’d stumbled across over a decade ago had captured a beauty he assumed was still out there, his own sorry reality would attract absolutely no one.
His beauty had once figured so clearly.
Now it was time to say goodbye to the illusion of love, that was true. Amongst the photos were photos of him. And truly he was a man of some merit. That was then. This was now.
In love he was no more: he would proceed, it was clear, to die on his feet, as he clambered across the cadavers of his hopes and years.