Meh. Now I know how Bridget Jones felt when people asked her that.
That’s what “Prince Player” wanted to know from me yesterday. I told him it was non-existent. As niether he or “Heart” seems to give a damn about me.
“Oh stop Shaz” my friend Steven said the last time I felt this way.
“Let me tell you something, all Prince Player wants me as is a side dish. I am his appetizer/snack. I cheer him up when he is down, we get together, and then he later confesses to me that he likes someone else. And so he leaves me for his main dish” I said.
“Okay…you’re not making any sense. Translate this for your non-writer friend” he said.
Loud sigh from me. “He will never see me as more than a friend. I have tried over and over to change his mind” I said defeated.
“Ah okay. You see that makes more sense. But…what about Heart?” he asked.
I stay silent. I look at the ceiling and then at the floor.
“Oh. My. God. You love the bastard don’t you?” he asks.
I stay silent.
“Okay how about this. Let’s start from the beginning. Did you love Sugar?” he asks.
“Meh. Not really. He was always an impulse kind of thing for me” I say.
“Okay, how about C?”
I spit out my virgin-margarita “Oh my god. NO. EF NO.”
“Alright, alright, jeez. And….Prince Player?”
I swallow. And then I look at the ceiling and back to the floor again. And then side to side.
“SHAZ. JUST ADMIT THAT YOU LOVE HEART AND CARE ABOUT HIM MORE THAN ALL THE OTHER GUYS!” my friend says frustratedly.
I swallow again.
“Well fine! Yes. I love the bastard who loves me back but tries not to every single day! The one who is cruel to me because he loves me but doesn’t want to love me because he is afraid of how society will view our differences. The one who constantly tries to make me feel degraded so that I would stop loving him. Yea. I do” I say.
Steven looked taken back. “No Shaz. You love the man who rescued you at the weakest point in your life. The one that rose you up and reminded you of who you are. The one you saw as a future husband and potentially having kids with. The one that made your life seem like a temporary fairytale. That is the man you love” he says.
My virgin-margarita does no justice. My glass is empty and so is my heart. A tear rolls down my cheek, “It’s complicated, Steven. Mine and his relationship will never be about love. It will always be about a forbidden romance in two very different cultures that refuse to accept differences.”
And so we sit there, both defeated.
So how is my love life? It’s complicated.