Monologue from scrapped playwriting attempt

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 
her interesting. 
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. 

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