An extraordinary young woman with extraordinarily dark hair once said to me: I don’t think I care for too much about you. I had to solemnly agree with her: Neither do I, neither do I – there are only some very few things about myself that I truly treasure. She smiled at this, but not in a particularly friendly way.
These two, her and I, had known one another for a few months. Neither was entirely certain where they had met the other, but both were sure that they had spent far too much time in one another’s presence since whenever that meeting might have been. I, for instance, despite finding both the woman and her hair quite extraordinary, felt in her presence a sense that I had discovered, at last, the paragon of disagreeableness. She, for her part, found me at times grossly uxorious, and at others smug and ungrateful, but at no time at all did she find it pleasant to be around me.
The reason why we were forced to while away so much time in each other’s company was, like our first meeting, somewhat of a mystery. The miserable reality of the situation itself, I suppose, had eclipsed our ability to discern reasons or beginnings. We were around each other a great deal, and we surely must have met at some point, but how or why were both somehow irrelevant when confronted with such perpetual unpleasantness.
Now, though, and for reasons equally unclear, I am no longer in contact with this most extraordinary of women. Instead, I sit alone in quiet contemplation, reflecting on all those exceptional qualities she possessed: her dark hair, her equivocating smiles, her fundamental lack of appreciation of so many of my finer points, etc., which is almost as unpleasant, I have found, as actually being around her.
These two, her and I, had known one another for a few months. Neither was entirely certain where they had met the other, but both were sure that they had spent far too much time in one another’s presence since whenever that meeting might have been. I, for instance, despite finding both the woman and her hair quite extraordinary, felt in her presence a sense that I had discovered, at last, the paragon of disagreeableness. She, for her part, found me at times grossly uxorious, and at others smug and ungrateful, but at no time at all did she find it pleasant to be around me.
The reason why we were forced to while away so much time in each other’s company was, like our first meeting, somewhat of a mystery. The miserable reality of the situation itself, I suppose, had eclipsed our ability to discern reasons or beginnings. We were around each other a great deal, and we surely must have met at some point, but how or why were both somehow irrelevant when confronted with such perpetual unpleasantness.
Now, though, and for reasons equally unclear, I am no longer in contact with this most extraordinary of women. Instead, I sit alone in quiet contemplation, reflecting on all those exceptional qualities she possessed: her dark hair, her equivocating smiles, her fundamental lack of appreciation of so many of my finer points, etc., which is almost as unpleasant, I have found, as actually being around her.
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