7 April 2012
Dear Alexander,
A cafe in Rome. I was sitting there with my glasses askew, typing furiously away on my somewhat out-dated type writer that belonged to a second aunt twice removed, or something. I ordered some coffee in a peculiar mixture of French, Italian, English, and wild gesturing. I eventually got the message across, and I sat for a few moments, staring into space, sipping my drink, and dreaming. Dreaming of my tall-dark-handsome-stranger, how he would come along and sweep me off my feet. I was such a romantic. I knew of course that a wild eyed, bespectacled brunette dressed in hopelessly drab polo necks and faded jeans such as myself could only dream of these things. But back then, I saw no harm in whisking myself away into romantic adventures full of dashing young heroes and me, and soppy, soppy romance. And then you came. You were my dream come true. Your easy smile, your twinkling eyes, your roguish good looks, it was better than anything I ever wrote,or imagined. You made my dreams reality with your humour, the candlelit dinners, the wine, the romance, oh the romance...you would whisper the words I craved, those three words, each kiss telling me, tattooing on my heart that I was loved, cherished, adored. I really was the heroine. I became glamorous. You made my belief in love even stronger, gave my writing fire. Of course, the books never sold, but they were the romantic manuscripts that we would sigh and giggle over together. They started to seem a little pointless, so I threw them in the fire yesterday. They didn't even burn well. I still remember waking up that day, the bed still warm from your body. I tiptoed out of bed, hoping you'd made some early morning coffee, that I could creep up behind you, put my arms around your waist and kiss your neck. I would feel you chuckle. You would then twist around, hold me in your strong arms, and kiss me in that way that made me melt. " Morning", you'd whisper huskily in my ear. Every morning this would happen, every morning I woke feeling the luckiest woman in the world. But you weren't there. It didn't bother me at first, but when I noticed your things missing, everything of yours carefully removed, I thought it was a nightmare. I thought I would wake up. Then I thought I had been dreaming,that we had been a dream, and I had just woken up. But the fire you had placed in my heart told me it wasn't so. That's all ashes now. Cold ashes to be born away on the wind. A shattered woman is what you left, Alex. Shattered heart, shattered dreams, shattered reality. Then came the realisation. I was an idiot. I was a very, very naive and stupid little girl. All my dreams were just dreams. You were just a dream. I used to scream at myself, now I chuckle at my ignorance. I realise now how silly I was to think I could mean that much to anyone. Was I a little fling? Another broken heart to add to your no doubt formidable collection? Romance. What an illusion. Why? We had everything Alex. I thought we were happy. You could at least have told me. That's what broke me. That's what made me hate you. I don't hate you now. I'm not even angry. I want to thank you. Thank you. Alexander, for giving me an enlightening I'll never forget. We had our times, thank you for those, for giving me a taste of what could have been. And thank you, for waking me out of my dreams, a little harshly but very memorably, and for showing me reality. Oh, and thank you for helping my books to sell better. Tragedy and broken hearts are all the rage now, it seems.
This Love • Opuss № I