second chances

Sometimes I think that the only way we could make it work is if we went back to being strangers. And re-write everything,

We’d meet and introduce each other. You’d follow my nervous gestures as I run my fingers through my hair, and I’d laugh at your jokes.

The conversations will be long, so will the walks. You’ll learn about my life and find every insignificant detail from my past fascinating because it made me the way I am today. And I will cherish the man you’ve come to be through heartaches and struggles.

We’ll create new memories. This time we’ll be careful not to stop hiding our flaws and let everything fall apart like the first time.

But, most of all, you’ll do better at hiding the other women, and I – at pretending it doesn’t bother me.


a fairy-tale, sort of

She always knew when he was with Her. Not physically per se, but in his mind and heart. It was in those moments that he became aggressive, detached and rough – pinning her down and turning the bed into a war zone. He was trying to extinguish his unhealthy attachment, to erase Her image – from his mind and life, strip it down and tear it apart until there was nothing but an aching scar in its place. She pursed her lips and took it, afraid to admit even to herself that she was enjoying this torture. Afterwards she was always quick to reassure him with her eyes that it was OK. Not that he seemed to care.

Inside her his movements were slow, deliberate; he listened to her sighs and barely audible moans and stroked her with tenderness he didn’t think he had in himself. Every time he wished they could stay connected like this until the end of time. She felt ethereal next to him; he needed physical validation that she was there. Albeit a short-lasting one.

He was careful to avoid all the places where he used to go with Her.Everything needed to be different. New. Unique. Luckily she didn’t resemble Her in anything. Different figure, brown instead of blue eyes, long straight instead of short and curly hair. Her features were so delicate she looked like a fair-skinned figurine; it took him a while to get used to handling her as he wasn’t fond of being careful. Sometimes he would think of Her generous curves and hour-glass frame. She was as different on the inside as she was on the outside – anxious, restless and fleeting like the surface of the ocean on a windy day. Nothing was what it seemed with her. He was unable to forgive her for nothing being like He, but loved her for who she was.

She often fantasized about talking with Her and so did he. A desperate attempt at seeking out the ‘why’ they hoped would fill the numerous cracks in their turbulent relationship. A vain one too as She had no interest in speaking to either of them. She had moved on; they were the ones who were stuck. He wished he could see them next to each other to know for sure if he had made the right decision. Not to compare them – no one can be better or worse than someone else; people are just different and he was perfectly aware of that. But he needed some sort of reassurance.

– Why do you put up with all of this? – he would often ask her.

– I love you. – she would reply.

– How is that even possible. I am so cruel to you.

– That’s all you have left.

– What if She never loosens her grip on me.

– She won’t, but it doesn’t matter.

One day he realized to his surprise he had pined her to the wall and was roughly slamming her against it not in an attempt to punish her (not her, of course, it wasn’t her fault…he was trying to punish himself), but because he had come to understand it was what she liked and expected from him.

He sighed with relief. Outside the dawn was breaking. Both of them had this renewed hope now everything would be different. And new. 

she’s a lady

The worst mistake a man can make is stay back and wait for forgiveness. Everyone you love will eventually disappoint you and, sadly, they have no place in your life afterwards. Women know that, they sense it in their very core. Men don’t. They are proficient at clinging onto things that have long fallen apart and religiously trying to hold dust between their fingers. The day a woman stops loving a man is the day she’s able to forgive him.
And a new woman is born. Men always underestimate the power they have on the women whose lives they’ve passed through. Men are the driving force behind any… every change in a woman – constructive or destructive. It starts very subtly (as everything else): she begins to forget all disillusions, hurt, moments of pain and alienation, times she hated him (yes, it’s a good sign when a woman is capable of hating you – it means there’s still enough passion in her to care) and starts remembering the nice gestures, long conversations, late and cosy mornings in bed, hot late nights. The paradox is that the more she remembers reasons to justify her love for him, the less she loves him. The image of the man as a partner, protector and friend falls behind to give way to the new one of a dear old friend from another ‘here and now’. One that quite possibly never existed or whose existence is irrelevant to say the least, because it’s no longer her living in it. She was a different person. She is a different person.
The day she’s capable of forgiving everything, a woman’s heart awakens hollow, renewed and free. It’s a high prize to pay for only having wanted to be loved. And loved back, of course. But love is a tricky business: it fears loss, it never forgets and is easily offended; it gets jealous of past ghosts and present back-up plans; it craves genuine kindness and warmth instead of fake romanticism; it suffers from unbalanced accounts because it always seeks the emotional equilibrium; love is pure and simple – it looks for no more and no less than love itself.
More often than never it’s not necessary to stop believing in something for it to perish – it perishes regardless if we believe or not. Only women are strong and cruel enough to euthanise their feelings and carry on branded as ‘cold-hearted’ and ‘not-caring’, consecutively crushing any sign of belief, hope or emotion they might still have left . After all, it’s the only luxury we can afford, unable to externalise our pain as men do.