He told her that he loved her

She told him to calm down

“Just relax hon’. Here, have some water. Are you alright?”

She acted as if he had some sort of disease,

As if he was confused,

As if they had separate dictionaries or in fact, spoke different languages, in which ‘love’ in his language was a word for ‘tired’,

When he said “I love you”, he must have meant “I’m tired of you” he could not have possibly have meant the kind of love that was love in her language.

She looked at him like he was sick,

Foreign, alien.

He took the water she offered him, confused as to why she gave him water and not an answer of “I love you too”

He knew she did,

When he said “I said, I love you” after his last sip,

She looked at him as if she was disgusted,

She was disappointed, in his bad taste,

He had just admitted that he loved stubborn, book crazed, stay in doors kind of girls. The kind that could bore you to death with their knowledge of ancient cultures and historical artefacts,

Girls like her.

She had dated him and fallen for him before he even knew her name.

To her, he was unattainable, and being his girlfriend, she expected the relationship to end soon, but she didn’t mind,

She liked having someone to admire her, not love her

He would be Van Gogh, the artist people would talk about,

She would be the painting, admired for her so called aesthetic, not her substance, he would confuse the two, but that would be okay too…

Or so she thought, but here he was,

Doing something she was not used to…loving her,

And within the long silence that came after him saying that he loved her,

She began to resent him,

For making her uncomfortable.

 

 

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