Sigh.
You would think that I could keep my eyes on the man in my life, that I wouldn’t be drawn by yet another adventurer, that I could remember that the argument between size and frequency has not been resolved.
But not only have I cheated, again, but I’m on my third infidelity of the week.
Don Quixote was my love, my life, for the first half of the story – my mantra for Part One of the book, in the words of Jessica Rabbit: “He makes me laugh”.
But with Part Two, the honeymoon was over. Now I find myself avoiding him whenever I can – I go out with other books, while he stays home on the nightstand; even at home, I ignore him and flirt with graphic novels.
What is worse, I had a little fling with a female protagonist. And it was fun, although it wasn’t a lasting relationship.
I wish I could say that it is because I’m acting out my grief, knowing that DQ is going to die – if it were only that, perhaps I could be forgiven. But with less than 100 pages to go, there’s no denying the inevitable – and besides, I’ve been through too many deaths of beloved characters to use this as an excuse.
No, it is sheer selfishness, my tawdry little affairs; the lust for adventure and excitement; the desire to have someone new and unknown, perhaps even a little mysterious, in my life.
Dear DQ, part of me wants to lie to you, make you feel better, and even though it is trite, say, “It’s not you, it’s me.”
But it *IS* you.
