That Thing Called Flattery
He said it was supposed to be a compliment. But coming from someone without control of his full senses, how would I know if he really meant it?
This was the question posed by an overbearingly intoxicated human being whom I envied for quite a long time. She, of all people, bore now the suffering of being called “in love”.
In fact, she said, it was an understatement. She called herself a stupid lunatic fool in hopeless romantic pursuit of unmitigated passion. Her feelings haunt her like the ghosts of the Christmas verb tenses. She has lost her willpower to overcome it. All futile, she added. She can’t deny that it’s happening. She can but accept that this is her curse. Her last resort to save her remaining vestige of sanity is to plead guilty.
And she withered in front of me as a child would when a favorite toy is taken away.
I stared vehemently at nothingness as I refilled my glasses hoping that I could at least empathize. Yet I, too, felt scared. Even repulsed at the thought of me feeling scared. I could tell her a hundred and one pages of my own madness left unstirred by restraint and logic.
She looked at me, almost imploringly. And in the midst of all her sobs, she smiled sympathetically at me. I didn’t hear her at first and she had to ask again, “Your tears, are those for me or are you the same stupid lunatic fool?”
I couldn’t admit it at first. I didn’t know. All I feel was a tight knot engulfing every twinge of panic beats within me. And I tasted salt. I, too, was crying.