Another, another, another searcher has landed on these fair shores. It is a boat I know.
When he first told her at a party that he loves her, she responded by saying that he shouldn’t be so sure. There was nothing for him to do but laugh. He had expected her to swoon, had thought that this proclamation would at least warrant a kiss, but instead he got a glare and a sentance. The gauntlet had been thrown down.
He took her home that night, slipped between her thighs, and devoted himself to making her come three, four times, but still she did not reciprocate. He gave her jewlery, and still, and still. He put it in writing, a letter written after a night of drinking with friends. Getting these words out of her was a game now; she was a fox and he was wearing that rediculous red coat. The closest she got was lurve. Lurve with a perhaps attached.
Weeks of trying, weeks of masculine efforts and desire and candelight dinners, and finally, she says it. Into the darkness, facing away from him, naked in bed. She says the words, and he questions them. They feel hollow, they feel wrong, and the love he thought he felt turns, and twists.
She knew this would happen. She avoids falling in love, because the people she loves always take her love and turn it into pity. He turned out to be just like the rest. No one who feels pity can simultaniously feel passion. She looks him in the eyes and says the words she knows he is feeling, “we’re done, aren’t we?”