#sharon!!!!

I’ve said that he and I had been crazy for each other, but maybe my ex and I were not crazy for each other. Maybe we were sane for each other, as if our desire was almost not even personal— it was personal, but that hardly mattered, since there seemed to be no other woman or man in the world. Maybe it was an arranged marriage, air and water and earth had planned us for each other—and fire, a fire of pleasure like a violence of kindness. To enter those vaults together, like a solemn or laughing couple in formal step or writhing hair and cry, seemed to me like the earth’s and moon’s paths, inevitable, and even, in a way, shy—enclosed in a shyness together, equal in it. But maybe I was crazy about him—it is true that I saw that light around his head when I’d arrive second at a restaurant—oh for God’s sake, I was besotted with him. Meanwhile the planets orbited each other, the morning and the evening came. And maybe what he had for me was unconditional, temporary affection and trust, without romance, though with fondness—with mortal fondness. There was no tragedy, for us, there was the slow-revealed comedy of ideal and error. What precision of action it had taken, for the bodies to hurtle through the sky for so long without harming each other.