I wrote her a letter. It had been raining here for a week or so and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I told her that she had no right to be upset with me just because I kept saying in my letters that I love her. You love your husband and that’s okay with me, but if you don’t acknowledge that you also love me I will not write to you anymore.
We met a long time ago at the Vieux Port, we were both living in Marseille, and I didn’t have sex with anyone else afterward as I had it with her. I don’t know what sex is about. I know however that sex is a very private thing: nobody in bed resembles anybody else. I loved it with her, loved it very much, and I cannot forget the way her eyes stared at me when I was fucking her. But I already said that, didn’t I?
I hate to think that fucking happens because we are animals and animals enjoy fucking. I have the pretension of being the owner of a soul. Love for me is always a spiritual discovery or it is not worth the effort.
She says: you are a very difficult person, no wonder you live alone. And she adds: I am not so sure anymore that we two would get along so well. I think: fuck you, baby, just accept that you miss me as much as I miss you, stop digressing from what is important.
She is happy with her life, she loves her husband and she has a beautiful house in a beautiful town. Is that enough? I asked her and she said yes, it is enough, I don’t even know why I am writing to you, it doesn’t make sense. Sure, said I, keep complaining about me, you may even stop writing to me, fuck you.
In fact I didn’t say anything of what’s mentioned above, the words just crossed my mind but I didn’t say any of it. What for? I love her anyway.
I really believe everything she says. I believe that she loves her husband. But I also believe that she loves me and that she would like to make love to me again as in the old days. Once I asked her: do you remember that afternoon at my apartment, you had an exam and we wanted each other so much that I started to kiss you and we made love in a hurry before I drove you to your class? She said: yes, I remember it.
Only she is afraid of admitting that in one way or another – the mystery surrounding our feelings is awesome - she still loves me. She would do it, she would fuck me again, she would deeply enjoy my tenderness… and she would be devastated as soon as she’d think about herself as an adulterous woman. What can I do about it? Such is the power of certain words that good people fear them as they would fear the devil. And they forget to live their lives. It’s their problem. But in this particular case it ends up being my problem too. We will die sooner or later and the love we didn't make is lost forever.
How can we be responsible for what we feel and think if thoughts and feelings keep coming to our mind and body without asking us for permission? But she is a good woman and when those thoughts dare to invade her so well organized and happy life, her educated mind, she is terrified. She would never hurt anybody. Her husband is a great guy. He loves her, true? He has been taking care of her for so many years. And she has been taking care of his laundry, of his meals and of his sexual needs, isn’t it true that she is a good wife? How could she love another man, do that to him? No, impossible.
I know all that and I keep writing to her everyday. Before I go to bed I sit at my computer desk and I send her a message: sleep well, my love. What does she feel when she reads my words in the morning? I will never know. She will never say what she feels because she is a respectable woman. She is married, true? She would never allow herself to behave as a dreadful bitch. I will never be for her more than an inoffensive dream, an innocent sin. Our relationship allows her to feel that her life is not finished yet, that she could change it completely if she wanted. If she doesn’t it’s because she is very happy with her life as it is.
No, love is not just about fucking. It’s about having a house or a home, it’s about security, it’s about feeling protected, maybe about feeling admired or respected. I don’t know. It’s about having someone with whom to spend a wonderful evening at the restaurant, maybe. It’s about escaping the misery of life, the cold and dark nights in winter.
What a day. I am tired now. It has been raining for a week or so here and I have been too sensitive, in a kind of bad mood.