When you sit upon a ticking bomb, I have been told it is easy to fall in love.
Maybe that is true, and maybe it isn’t, I don’t know for certain. But what I do know for certain is that one very uncertain summer right after graduating, with the impending doom of adulthood upon my head, just when I least expected it, I thought I was in love. It was, as they say, the best of times, it was the worst of times. He was equal parts Flaubert, Modigliani and sovereign debt crisis. When we sat and talked into the early hours of the morning, I didn’t feel hurt over all that had passed, but happy that I had gotten through it all; we both had, the two of us, two separate spheres orbiting two separate universes, united by the concept of conquering odds and the beauty of human suffering.
Then the summer was over and my best friend said I had other things to worry about and much as I hate to admit it, he is right. This man – this perfect, perfect man- doesn’t deserve to be dealt a hand of uncertainty from my very complicated life. He makes me so, so happy and the best I can give him is half a dream. So in an obscure tearoom in the nooks of London’s drenched streets, I am about to go break my own heart.
Can someone please, please stop me?