Of Love and Novocain

He thought the end had worked out well. He’d not felt pain. He’d not felt anything. And after all, she’d not become involved with any of his friends, only one of their sons. And the economic drain left with her, no more faux medical emergencies or fake robberies or coy admiration of things a bit too expensive, no more blatant manipulation. No more lies. No more her.

Was it a wonder he’d felt relief rather than grief? Very numb relief though.

Still, there were consequences. Her family, which had been as close to him as siblings, was now uncomfortably isolated, although the mutual feelings of deep affection persisted, just very awkwardly. And he couldn’t even remember what love was, only an echo of a hint of a memory of what had once been a consuming passion.

As though he’d been administered Novocain.

Perhaps that was a benefit rather than a detriment, a cape of immunity to feminine charms to which he’d proved all too vulnerable when his quest for perfect love had occupied all too much of his core and of his essence. He’d met wonderful women since, women he liked, respected and admired; women to whom he felt indebted, but no hint of that lost debility he’d once treasured.

That didn’t really seem quite right, regardless of the safety it seemed to provide.  Links in a sad, sad chain of victims become victimizers.

Memory is a strange thing, at least it was for him. Sometimes he felt as though he kept shifting in and out of different realities, moving from being one person to another, things he was sure had happened apparently had not. Especially in the case of women, memories just didn’t seem to coincide. Had they ever he wondered? It was hard to remember.

He wondered a lot about why he’d thought he’d loved her so.

He’d hated the way she kissed and in most respects their intimacy had been disappointing, perhaps not even bland. Her feet and hands were too big and her legs too thick, although she knew just how to dress to minimize her weaker aspects and emphasize those that made her seem so beautiful. And he had to admit that her charisma had dazzled him.

So much so that she could lie with impunity and he’d just sigh and believe her, no matter what.

He thought the end had worked out well. He’d not felt pain. He’d not felt anything. And after all, she’d not become involved with any of his friends, only one of their sons. And the economic drain left with her, no more faux medical emergencies or robberies, or coy admiration of things a bit too expensive, no more blatant manipulation.

No more lies. No more her.

He wondered why he felt so empty though.
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© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2017; all rights reserved