I've been feeling kind of bummed out lately about how the magic with this guy I met a couple of months before at a friend's party and saw again not too long ago completely burned bright and fizzled in the same evening. Lundi gras to be exact. I blame the vomitous and undressed crowds, getting stuck in the French Quarter with the parades, and the fact that we started the night out at Jean Lafitte's patio at the exact moment the guy came to clean the port-a-potty out. It was obviously a sign.
I know I shouldn't long to see him again (and keep obsessing about his 8:21am phone call with no message last Saturday) because I also learned during the night that he is probably a serial killer. But I guess serial killers are kind of charismatic. One day I will tell you all the story when I get over this little mini-crush. It involves a chalkboard in his kitchen with a list of "Things to Acquire." Shiver.
But the point being, I saw a movie tonight which was so beautiful and so right on the mark about that evening. Sorry for the rough translation from the French, but towards the end of A Man and A Woman when they finally consummate* this long drawn-out little romance they've been having, all she can think about are these beautiful images of being in love with her dead husband who will never be dead for her.
And so, after carefully and intellectually constructing this little dream world for themselves in which it will all be okay because the possibility of loving someone else is all there, they are left with unsavory crumbs. And he puts her on the train back to Paris (where they used to always drive back and forth when they were getting to know each other) and his monologue sums up the situation so beautifully, I wish I had seen this before. But it doesn't matter, because I know that I still did the right thing.
"Some Sundays start well and end badly. All the same, it's incredible - unbelievable to keep oneself from being happy. If I were to do it again, what else would I do? What else could I have done? Date her for months and months. It's the same thing - to force a relationship is to be in one."
Ah, the vindication of French drama. And the laughter from a friend's reading suggestion:
*For the record, we did not consummate anything. Mainly due to the chalkboard and other observed serial killer tendencies. Breathing is nice.
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