“I’m a little mock hurt that you actually think that of me.” I replied while sipping my drink. “Well, I do.” she continued, a slight fire in her eyes and a flirt on her smile. “You seem like the type of man that just likes to get women to fall in love with him and then leave them high and dry, keeping their heart in a jar on a shelf for your own amusement.”
What type of man would I have to be to do such a despicable thing? What type of man must I present myself as for a lady to even think that of me?
“Yet here you are.” I said coyly. “Yet here I am.” she replied, wrapping her lips seductively around the straw of her beverage.
As she laid beside me later that night, naked and spent, sleep escaped me. I laid awake, her words challenging my self view. Yes, I enjoyed the hunt. Every man did. Was she right? Was it all about the pursuit? All about conquering an objective? Case in point, I most likely wouldn’t call her again, but I think we were both clear on what this was up front. No, I wasn’t a player. I didn’t take advantage of women. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I could. I think men liked to believe they were in control but if we’re honest we all know it’s the vagina that rules the universe.
I was a deeply passionate man. A caring man. I was, and am, the kind of man that once you found your place in my heart would fight endlessly for you. Loyal. A true friend. Someone that would not give up long after everyone else had. That was the Way of the Brutor; to never give up despite the odds.
I had so many tell me to give up on the one lady that did have my heart. In a jar. On a shelf. So many had told me to move on, to give up on her, that she had made it repeatedly clear what her feelings regarding me were, but it wasn’t their life, was it?
Did they know her story? Did they know what she was going through? No. Sadly, neither did I. It was irrelevant. I wouldn’t want someone to give up on me easily. That is why I had few friends, few people I trusted. So no, I would not give up on her. Mynxee and I had been through far too much together to ever not love her as I did. As I do.
And it’s not so much the analogy of the heart in the jar that concerned me, the ability for her to simply knock said jar off a shelf and watch my heart dry out and die on the floor, it was more that beyond that I had essentially given her a surgeon’s scalpel and detailed instructions on how to hurt me most deeply, how to cut me wide open with ease. Isn’t that something we all do when we trust completely?
I do trust her. I will always trust her. I hope she knows she can always trust me, whether I remain nothing but a memory or should our paths ever converge again.
I sighed deeply. The heart wants what it wants.