I write to her almost every day. I talk frequently about love, remind her of the days we spent together in a distant city in another continent, where we first met. We were young, I am aware of it, and the time has passed by. We used to walk on the fields and on the hills around a beautiful village not far from the city were we both were students at the university. One day, when we returned to my apartment, I finally stopped talking and I kissed her. I tell her in my messages now how much I regret those days and how foolish I have been for not understanding then that we were made for each other. I say: I miss you a lot, I miss you very much, I wish you were living here close to me, can you believe it?
I am not completely sure that we were made for each other but it’s my way of expressing my desire for her love now. Maybe I could love her passionately and be faithful to her as I never have been faithful to any woman before. We would have a very calm life together. I know that sometimes she can be upset and anxious if things do not develop as she had expected but I think I know how I would make her feel relaxed and happy. I also ask myself sometimes: how are you sure that she would be worth so much love, so much attention? It might happen with her what happened to you before with other women: they did not seems to understand what was going on and you got tired and disappointed. Then you left or allowed them to abandon you. How can you be sure that this time again you would not be disappointed? You may come once more to the same conclusion: love as I imagine it does not exist. And yet love for me is a very simple thing and I don't feel that I am particularly picky or eccentric in my way of looking at it.
She never leaves my message without an answer. But instead of talking about love she always has things to say about her old mother and about her girl friends. They travel together and have great parties away from their husbands. She seems to enjoy it but sometimes she confesses that she cannot drink and talk as much as the other women do. It is obvious that she has not stopped being the girl I met many years ago. I understand it in each of her words. I think for myself, with regret: and now it’s too late, I will never kiss her lips again, she will not fix her beautiful blue eyes on mine and blush, I stopped being the person she loves. I also think that there is no reason to complain or feel unhappy, I grow old and I am aware that life is what it is and we cannot have everything we want. She answers me, isn’t that enough?
Sometimes I tell her about my wife (we are divorced) and about a crazy girlfriend I had some years ago. I say: can you imagine, that bitch once brought a man to my apartment when I was out of town and they slept in my bed. And I forgave her and kept living with her for three more years, can you believe me? I am sure that you would never do anything like that. She agrees that my ex was indeed someone very bizarre and she says that she would never do anything like that to anybody. I answer: and you think that you need to say it to me as if I didn’t know the kind of person you are?
I also told her about a kind of girlfriend I have in Mexico, a very beautiful and very good girl I met years ago after my divorce, when I was living alone. I added: it’s so far away and Mexico is a very dangerous country right now; maybe I should find myself a woman here, it's not easy but I think I will work on that if an opportunity arises, I am tired of sleeping alone. It’s a good idea, she said, I encourage you to find a nice woman who will take care of you, you are very dear to me; but you promise that you will ask for my approval when you finally have found someone to love. Sure, said I, I will ask for your opinion before I take any decision on such a serious matter. I guess that she laughs when she reads what I write. I laugh a lot myself when I let all these crazy thoughts cross my mind.
Well, she knows how much I love her. But she thinks that I exaggerate, she says that I am inventing a person that doesn’t exist to satisfy my desperate need for love. I am not as good as you think, believe me. To that I answered: what are we but the fantasy of some other person's imagination? What is love but a beautiful and enticing misunderstanding, born of our need of security and of a life that makes sense? Where would we get the force and the courage to carry on with life if we didn’t believe in love, the love we feel for someone or the love someone feels for us? But as I said she doesn’t like to feed my need to talk about love. She prefers to talk about her old mother and about her girlfriends, their dinners and their trips. Why? I don't know. Or maybe I know but prefer to think that I don't know. I will get used to that and will wait patiently for better days. I prefer to believe that in her own way she also loves me. Isn't she writing to me almost everyday too, never leaving my obsessive messages without an answer? Yesterday I thought that she may need me as much as I need her. Love can be many things, you know.We don't call love everything that is love and maybe we sometimes call love what is not love at all.