I slept poorly last night.
I spoke to the Kiwi, probing gently to see if he had, indeed, read my blog and to gauge how much he hated me for being so cavalier in my last post.
- Read anything good lately?
- No. Not really.
Shit. He’s definitely read it.
Or then again, perhaps he hasn’t. The Kiwi seemed as usual - sweet and pure as the driven snow (and a foil to my own black heart). It then occurred to me that he had read it and didn’t really care, since we’d made an unspoken pact not to get too attached during our two months together. But these arrangements are new to me; I am accustomed to giving my heart away with abandon and, at the end of things, to suffering great losses. Breeziness is not in my repertoire.
And yet, this time, I did a damn good job at lightheartedness. I didn’t tie myself into knots, didn’t obsess, didn’t torment myself by playing games or decoding code. There is a limit to how many times you can have your heart broken. My limit, I think, is twice. Since I’ve already used up all my points, perhaps lightheartedness is all I can handle.
For now.