I met her at a travel writing workshop. That was ten
months ago. She sashayed into my life on blue and gray
platform sandals, the colors of an ominous storm-cloud.
Her smile was perfect contrast — a bit too wide, too
sunny for her proud-looking face. But her smile made
her look human. And her weird dress and fast-talk made
And so I fell for her, because she was interesting.
Because she liked taking candid pictures and shooting
from the hip. Because she wanted to go to Paris and
live in a garret and write for a living. Because she
was wild, and different — moody and inconsistent and
demanding and immature and interesting.
After four months of doing what had started that day at
the workshop — just talking, feeling each other out —
I’d managed to mistake finding her interesting for being
interested in her. So I dove, when I scribbled those three
little words on the sheet of paper in the coffeeshop. And she
took that swan-dive with me.
Six months of a rollercoaster ride later, and it’s too
late, I’m undone. I went in too deep.