A false trichotomy

Her. Something else. Or, nothing.

That trichotomy is, of course, false.

There is something else or there is nothing.

That is all.

Thus far, the something else has turned out to resemble something very close to the inverse of her.

The last apparently nice thing she did for me was nearly 9 years ago. She called me to say farewell, prior to one year overseas. I guess it was better than leaving without saying goodbye. She saved that (non-)act for one year later when she resigned from our mutual employer.

The last compassionate thing she did was, 5 years ago, when she sent me a note informing me in 11 short words of her marriage 6 months previously. It wasn't particularly pleasant news, but I do recognize she told me because she thought it might help me let go. That I didn't is my bad.

The fact that this barren reality has barely dimmed my desire for her is testament to the intensity of the core experience which is the foundation of my obsession - a wonderful weekend of intimacy. We didn't have sex - we never had sex. But we did spend a very fine weekend getting to know each other, most of it in bed.

That experience remains the most complete mind fuck of my life.