I Loved Him

I loved him, was in love with him.

It’s a weird thing to say now--now that I’m, well, not. But I did. I loved him.

I loved him matter-of-factly, in a way that recognized his immediate positive attributes. “He has such a strong allegiance to family, to friends, to the idea of friendship. He is goofy yet serious, adventurous yet stable.”

I loved him abstractly, in a way that exalted his potential qualities. “He will make a good father. His dedication to work will surely result in success. If ever I became famous, how grand he would look on my arm!”

I loved him hopelessly, in a way that examined his face, his body, his lifestyle, and thought, “Me? He picks me?” A love that verged on desperation, which felt itself doomed to loss and desperately feared to lose.

I loved him egotistically, reveling in the positive qualities his shining eyes reflected back at me. Spritely, intelligent, witty, creative. “She’s a charmer, she is, the most beautiful girl in the room. Easy to be around. One stepping-stone away from screaming success.” That vision of me—I loved him for creating that. And yet…

I loved him for many reasons, but I never loved him quietly, simply, unripplingly, nor he toward me.

And that love—the soft love—never came.