Some time in the middle the kiss he decided he loved her. It wasn't that she was a particularly great kisser. In fact, he was rather disappointed in the kiss, a little on the sloppy side, no gentle, lingering, tenderness. She was a little too eager, a little too sure of herself. But it was a long kiss, not particularly deep, his mind seemed to wander.
He thought about her. She was a revolutionary, not really a dangerous one in the overall scheme of things, but she had that wild glint in her eyes, that hungry passion in her words. How was he supposed to compete with her dreams, with her belief in something he found so lifeless? Still, she was a leader of men, a person with whom to be reckoned. She was a person he could admire, a person he could understand, even if she did seem to be a little unbalanced, she was able to see the world in a way he couldn't. She could make a decision in a flash, because she had this framework, this belief.
Something in him said that the framework wasn't enough for him, but she was so powerful, so strong. How could he deny the attraction he felt for her? How could he consider losing her, when she was the only thing that hinted at meaning in his life. She was the only person who had this picture, this power, this understanding. So what if it was wrong. So what if it wasn't a true faith.
What if she failed. Would he love her any less? Yes. Probably. He was attracted to her power, to the aura of strength. He was attracted to the young, confident, powerful, sexy woman. Would he love her when she was old. Probably not, she wouldn't be exciting then, she'd be a strange old woman with sagging breasts, flaccid thighs and weird ideas. He'd have seen her fall down, would have discovered the chinks in her armour. Would he love her enough to stand by her when she was persecuted? No. Still, he decided he loved her. Even though she was a reactionary. Even though most of her definition of self was based on not being the other, something he sort-of liked. There were fragments, ideas that made sense. Even talk of a universal style. Concepts that would win the people, gain a following. How could they resist something which offered immediate gains, which promised a better life for everyone, which was understandable, simple, and didn't rely on anything other than the five senses?
If he had to give up ornament, he would. She said it didn't help, that it was crime and evil, maybe she was right. If he had to pretend to admire efficiency, economy, truth to the materials, the machine, he could live with that. Did he really care about these things she hated? No. Not really, they were all around him, and they never seemed to do anything for him, some were nice, he'd liked a few he'd seen once, long ago. Certainly didn't put food on the table, or keep the rain off his head. And maybe she would soften. Would he still love her then? Maybe. Just maybe, there was a possibility anyway, after all, maybe she'd become more like him, and still have that fervour, that religious dedication, that overarching ideal which made the whole world seem understandable for a few seconds.
Yes. He decided for the moment that he loved her. He breathed out the passionate words, the words that every woman is searching for when the kiss is broken, the lingering kiss of certainty, the extension of the contact that will last until the next. He told her of his undying, unbreakable love, of the passion that would carry forward from this day unto eternity. He told her of his love.
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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 1997