The Idiot in the Looking-Glass

In case you haven't met a perfect person, I am here to tell you that there are none. His charisma and love is equally proportionate to that dark secret. In his case, the secret was a whooper. He would be pleased, perhaps, to know that the first thing that popped into my mind was, "I don't give a damn." He will never know. Anthony doesn't even know of my revelation in the first place.

Sometimes the secrets themselves don't hurt as much as the fact that they were secrets. In part I blame myself. With some thinking, with some vision, I might have saved myself the shock a long time ago. But I didn't want to think in that direction for obvious reasons. I never saw him as anything else but perfect.

It speaks well for me. I'm good at making up stories.

Now I love and hate him equally well.

Now I only wish separation. Now I only wish confrontation. All I have are my hands, flying about uncertainly, writing, taking down his picture and, with anger, setting it back up again. Rational Janet and Romantic Janet are doing battle.

I need to run this one off.

A wise friend and I talked not long afterwards in a crowded cafe by Washington Square park over bread and borscht that, in this dimension, the only thing we really own is the future. And so, like Alice, I gave myself some very good advice:

"Find someone with a flaw, a rather apparent flaw, for then his bar is set comfortably enough for both of you to sit."

But I very rarely follow it.

You can look forward to some not-so-serious postage in the future. Next week: shopping for Christmas and jerks who stand at the wrong side of the escalator.