Wednesday, 18 December 2013


Every single time that I read Segal's "Love Story", I become Jennifer Cavilleri. No, true. I swear. I even compel myself to slow down, read not more than just a few pages a time, so that I can stay Jennifer for a longer time. I wish I could stay Jennifer, always.

Like, I want to be as smart, as no-nonsense, as she is. To have a reply at the end of my tongue, always. And, at the same time, tender.

"Hey, Jen..."
"Jen... what would you say if I told you..."
I hesitated. She waited.
"I think... I'm in love with you."
There was a pause. Then she answered very softly.
"I would say... you were full of shit."

I also have always wanted to make love like her.

"Jenny, for Christ's sake, how can I read John Stuart Mill when every single second I'm dying to make love to you?"
She screwed up her brow and frowned.
"Oh, Oliver, wouldja please?"
I was crouching by her chair. She looked back into her book.
"Jenny - "
She closed her book softly, put it down, then placed her hands on the sides of my neck.
"Oliver - wouldja please?"

And then, give in. Suddenly. Without logic and without preparation. Well, whatsoever!

"Who said anything about marriage?"
"Me. I'm saying it now."
You want to marry me?"
She tilted her head, did not smile, but merely inquired:
I looked her straight in the eye.
"Because," I said.
"Oh," she said. "that's a very good reason."

Oh, and my father and me!

"The bride speaks too?" he asked, almost as if this - of all things - might be the coup de grace.
"Phillip," said his daughter, "could you imagine any situation in which I would shut up?"
"No, baby," he replied, working up a tiny smile. "I guess you would have to talk."

And I wanted to conquer. Like her. Yes, even with mean means, like this:

"Are you jealous?" I asked straight out.
"No; I've got much better legs," she said.
"Can you write a brief?"
"Can she make lasagna?"
"Yes," I answered. "Matter of fact, she brought some over t Gannett House tonight. Everybody said they were as good a your legs."
Jenny nodded, "I'll bet."
"What do you say to that?" I said.
"Does Bella Landau pay your rent?" she asked.
"Damn," I replied, "why can't I ever quit when I'm ahead?"
"Because, Preppie," said my loving wife, "you never are."

These, and many things. Almost everything save for few, I guess.

And, even at thirty-two, I wait to die at twenty-five. Still.

"Would you please hold me very tight?" she asked.
I put my hand on her forearm - Christ, so thin - and gave it a little squeeze.
"No, Oliver," she said, "really hold me. Next to me."
I was very, very careful - of the tubes and things - as I got onto the bed with her and put my arms around her.
"Thanks, Ollie."

Those were her last words.

Well, I know it's an utterly stupid thought, and a ridiculously written out post. But I cannot help it.

And I am not saying sorry. Because,

Love means not ever having to say you are sorry.

PS: I know it's height of narcissism, but really, isn't it the best thing to happen to anyone? To be loved so, so much?