The man himself is beautiful, yes, and soft, and tender in his way, but absent somehow. He speaks mindlessly. He’s a little too into himself. Horribly, it’s very easy to be in love with someone you don’t particularly like. The woman loves him the way a honeybee loves the sting—fevered for contact, willing to tug its own guts out in the process. You aren’t an idiot. This isn’t a good look on anyone. But isn’t part of free will getting to say fuck it and follow your passion anyway? So fuck it. At least you have a beautiful house that sways and sways and whispers to you in a low, lilting song.
