And perhaps your theory is that I never write about you. About that you are terribly wrong. I write about you a lot of times, all the time, even, if you realize with all these things that I am, in fact, talking to you.
The science of seduction is not lost on me. But it is also
not the sort of thing that is foremost on my mind. Afternoons spent
dissecting mixed signals, riding fences, drawing stories out of sticky
glances transformed the chase into an art form. It is inevitable, for
me, that this is how I see the world. And now here it is, the calm after
the storm, and part of me is still aching to be seduced. The downside,
really, of wanting to know things.
I know what I think I know
about human nature because people act with surprising regularity
according to whatever stimulus is presented to them. Know their story,
understand the reaction. I'm no exception to this. All my irrational
outbursts, all my creative spells, all my instincts, there are solid, if
not logical, explanations for everything. The only people who ever
truly amaze me are those with convoluted stories, stories within stories
within stories. Stories, not issues. Issues tend to kill real
I'm not saying everyone else is simple, or that
being simple is boring. Being simple is, quite possibly, the real point
in all of this. But you, perfect reader, are the real reason I wake up
every day, why I even bother at all. With you, the seduction is
complete: you will never know who you really are, you might wonder if it
were you, for a moment, then dismiss it, who am I, really, and why
should what I think matter?
But maybe this is enough: that the
thought of you makes the colors in my life brighter by a notch. An
important notch, the notch that makes all the difference. When I write, I
think about how to tell you that I'm utterly fascinated by what you
are, secretly wishing we never get to say the words. It's so much better
this way. I don't really know you, you don't really know me. We are
perfect for each other in so many ways.