This morning as I strolled through Rumston, over to Grandma's, I passed a window covered with that fake snow you spray from a tin. Someone had sprayed misshapen jingle-bells, holly and a Christmas message:
Love is Patient I read, in happy, loved up letters, all loopy and jolly, like the person who had written the message could validate this ridiculous claim with his or her own experiences. I half expected the happy couple, with matching bobble hats, white toothy grins, and snowflake jumpers to trip out of the front door and meander down the street ahead of me, holding hands.
I scowled. I kicked a crisp packet along the pavement. I smiled, both irritated and warmed: Love isPatient?
I wish that were true, and I am happy that they, the inhabitants of this soppy house, believe this, even if I do not: because I have been patient, but Love has not been kind.
If I had a can of spray snow, I would write on my window:
Love is Heartless
Do not think I am being negative. Well, perhaps I am. But Love is heartless. Love has allowed me to adore men, okay a man, who can only 'like' me back. Love has allowed other men to adore me, when I can only 'like' them back. Love has thrown doomed matches my way. Love has never knocked on my door and said: 'Here is a present for you - it is your dream come true'. It has said: 'Climb this mountain, swim this ocean, crawl through this desert, and then we shall see.'