Art

I’d met a man at an art exhibition.

His pursuit was always low-key. I liked that.

After about six months I went to his place (Actually it was his mother’s place; she was on holiday in Mexico but that’s not an angle I want to develop right now) and we fooled around.

I cried as I rode my bike home in the early morning.

I cried because I was confused. I cried because this man was astonishingly vulnerable and even though he was a wonderful man, I couldn’t be with him.

I cried because I knew I was lying when I told him I would call him when I got back from Ireland.

I cried for him because I didn’t want him the way he wanted me. I cried because I couldn’t give him what he wanted.

I cried in frustration and hopelessness that it wasn’t enough for me to just be loved.