Same story, different characters.
I’d warn them it would take some time to warm me, that I wasn’t their run-of-the-mill, wide-eyed sappy type who believed in fairy tale endings. Their reactions were always the same: they’d chuckle and assure me they are different.
Chuckle? How dare they fleer at my sincere warning?
“Do you want recommendations from past girlfriends?” they’d ask, promising all tongues would point towards their virtuous, well-governed selves. The Realist in me would scoff at such lofty conjectures, while the Idealist hoped these assertions would be proven true. Eventually, I’d give my heart enough allowance to pay off any lingering doubt.
And in such like allusions and amorous conceits, we would become suddenly smit with the same hasty and inconsiderate passion for each other, which they had conceived for me. Here was a prodigious birth of desire, affections settling where prior considerations would induce me chiefly to abandon.
However, with the test of time, one by one they’d fall. And alongside them, so would the shattered remnants of my idealism.
… he arrived, the moon of past nights sick and pale in comparison to the lustre of the sun. Given my penchant for bedding poor judgment, I gave him harsh denials at first; I needed to be standoffish and affect a coyness or indifference, that he may not think I were to be won so easily.
But there wasn’t any room in my case for such denials or puttings off, or any of the customary acts of delay and protracted courtship. There was something different about him; he wasn’t like anyone I had ever met before.
So with an honest frankness, which the novelty of such a situation excused, I confirmed the truth. I alerted he should not impute my easy yielding to levity or an unworthy mind. I went on to say I had not been abed the past few nights, that some distemper of novel affection had kept me awake against my will. And though I had revealed more words than my mouth could hold, though I had exposed more feelings than what my heart could account for, I solemnly vowed to myself that I would prove to him more true than many whose prudence may have been dissembling, and modesty, artificially cunning. He took to my honesty quite nicely, and assured me he didn’t expect any less.
Thirty in age, sixteen at heart. Just when I had thought cynicism had barnacled my stance on Love, he happened to my life and made me believe in the concept of fairy tale endings.