“Why do you love me?” she asked, brushing a lock of hair out of my face.
“Silly, isn’t it obvious? Do you really need me to explain again? You should know why I love you by now.”
“I know … sorry.” She didn’t understand how someone like me could love someone like her.
Even though we had slept together for years, she still couldn’t believe that I loved her.
She didn’t think very much of herself.
“Hey, do you want to go out to eat tomorrow?” she asked.
“You know we can’t do that … I wish we could.”
I felt a pang of sadness as I was reminded of reality.
“Please! Just this once! I just … want to do something with you …”
She broke down sobbing. I held her tight in an attempt to comfort her, but I knew that wouldn’t help anything.
She knew we couldn’t do that.
As I lay on the bed, I wondered what it would be like.
What it would be like to go to lunch with her, to dinner with her, to the movies with her, on a date with her; I wondered what it would be like to meet her parents, to propose to her,
to have children with her.
I wondered what it would be like to grow old together.
I’ve been wondering about this every night for the past few years when she comes over.
“But it’s just impossible,” I sighed to her as I lay on the bed by myself.