would say, feeling desperate, and unable to quell my desperation. He would respond only with a look, that withering look, so eloquent in its lordly disappointment, that said “your needs are so ordinary.” I wanted love, old-fashioned love. I wanted my dreams afloat with his. To be faithful, to share our truest selves, to fight and be briefly bereft, always knowing that the sweetness of reconciliation was afoot. But it was pedestrian, he said, this idea of love, bourgeois juvenilia that Hollywood had been feeding people for years. He wanted me to be unusual, interesting, and it took a while
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