Ghosts

by Dolly Alderton

How clear it suddenly was that we are all the same organs, tissue and liquids packaged up in one version of a million clichés, who all have insecurities and desires; the need to feel nurtured, important, understood and useful in one way or another. None of us are special. I don’t know why we fight it so much.

Being a heterosexual woman who loved men meant being a translator for their emotions, a palliative nurse for their pride and a hostage negotiator for their egos.

“Do you really want that from these men? Their attention?” “No,” she said. “What do you want?” “Their love.”

“I feel a bit tricked, to be honest. I’ve been told that I can buy anything I want. Or work for it. Or control it on an app. But I can’t buy love.