Love letter # 434
I understand that you have been expecting me to get back in touch. Our catch-up last week was such great fun. We got along so well. We connected. Or so it was meant to appear.
For a few minutes – and only for a few – your fawning, ego stroking act was working. It almost looked like you actually liked me. If I only could believe all that unwarranted hyperbole. Those ridiculous compliments. If only I could ignore the obvious signs of fishing – of you flattering me into your fold. Luring me into your influence.
I wonder now exactly what your objective was. Why you thought I might be fit for purpose. Why you believed I would fall for it.
Was it that barely concealed female chauvinism that so routinely passes for progressive liberalism these days? The idea that as a male I would simply not be able to see through you? Ah look, here’s a dumb little man; I’ll just laugh at his stupid jokes and pretend to be impressed by his so called smarts. Maybe I’ll giggle a bit and flutter my eyelashes. Do my simpering girly act. That should do the trick.
I’m only bothering to say this to you because, between the lines of your naked, egregious Machiavellian cynicism, I did indeed see something of great beauty. Or was it great pain? Perhaps even despair? Indeed, it could well be that I am simply reflecting your bruised attitude back at you. Your wariness, forged by wounds. Rather like my radar for manipulation.
I am too old for games. I no longer have the desire to be played or to play others. I am, instead, ready to love. To see and be seen. If you have not already deleted this message, or thrown up your shield, maybe it means that you feel the same. Or may one day wish to.