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I met her after a bitter, embattled break-up. I had the words and she had the ears. I preyed upon that vulnerability like a cat stalking the herd, carefully selecting the weakest and least resistant. It was too easy; I merely took my own pain and reversed it. I elevated and ascended my descended state. She was beautiful, smart, well-off and well-rounded. Who could ask for anything more?
Our conversations were cordial at first, never venturing into anything binding or committal; we exchanged pleasantries and smiles (if only she knew those smiles were that of a demon, not of a saint). I never made any first moves, never assumed and definitely never asserted. I let her maintain the control, giving her the reins, stirring our union in the direction she chose.
Always supporting, always bandaging hope. I knew exactly what I was doing.
It is an art - the art of deception - to allow a woman control and yet still remain a strong male, supportive and yet combative to maintain masculinity. It takes a certain assertion of balance, observation and intuition. And, at the time, I thought I was extremely gifted in all of these areas. She fell hard, fast and complete.
Now, of course, most women at this point would say that she was either desperate or dumb. However, let me assure you that she was neither. She was merely in love with the projected image of her ideal man. And, as we all know, love out-thinks, outsmarts and outweighs all prospects of sensibility. So, to those that promote her flaws, know that we all know you validate them in private. We all go through this, at least at one point in our life. Within a month, she was packed, moved out of her house and into my small apartment. And she couldn’t have been happier.
My manipulation was masterfully executed – “executed” not as in carried out, but as in put to death by order of authority, stripping her of all fortifications and defenses, all the while leading her into the wilderness of life naked and exposed. Her secrets were my spoils, which I dined lavishly on until full, discarding the remaining portions as table scraps. She laid out the buffet of her life upon my table of self-esteem, past failures and insecurities. Glutton ferried itself forward, bursting my seams, until I found that the taste of revenge was not sweet with satisfaction, but wrenched with self-damnation (another canto of Dante).
She supported me more than any other being I happened across. And, in her, I realized every fantasy of romance and endearment that I had imagined. Although my plan was conquest, I found myself carrying out the dreams of what I wanted in not only a woman, but a relationship. However, my fear of failures based upon the past, held me fast. I was never made to be a player, only a hurt man in pain. It was safe for me to assume that role. That way, if the relationship failed, I could stride away, disguising my disappointment as a manly conquest of love and virtue.
It was safe.
In retrospect, I realized that it was love that shied me away. This love made me scared and uneasy. It caused my confidence, based on pain, to falter. Pain had kept me at a distance from my emotions. I had lived with it so much; I didn’t know that anything else existed. Pain gave me strength and perseverance. It gave me courage and kept me company in the lonely hours. I thought it was my soulmate, my partner for life. I fooled myself into believing the cards, notes, candles, picnics, etc., were only props staged for the next act. However, deep inside I knew the warring thoughts of love. I knew, but dared not accept them. Love was rejected and ejected at every turn.
Until she left.
My pride was my persecution. Now those same songs I once dedicated cause tears to well up. And the memories curse my heart in damnation.
Aaaaaw... the memories...
All etched on the clipboards of my past.
Memories ...they never leave, momentous of time, granted by fate. She was the string that sewed my soul wounds. And, at the time, I was so drugged with self-pity that it never came to mind. But as "Prince" wrote, "Love isn't love, until it’s past."
Players only play upon their own fears.
[People please exhale... Breath again.]
I think the former line makes a better ending.