Not faking

I’ve been single for eleven years. There has been the odd fling, the odd false start. More first dates than I can count. And then the one who broke my heart (see ‘tangled web’). I’m comfortable with my own company, I’ve lost the self-consciousness of my twenties and I’m always happy for others when I hear of their lucky love stories. I’m not bitter or scorned. But I’d be lying if I said I was one of those who ‘fell in love with myself’ over lockdown. I already loved myself, I already felt ready to let someone in. I’m a happy person as a rule but believe ‘happiness is only real when shared.’ I’m financially independent, have great friends, and don’t believe a woman needs romance to be happy. And I’m trying to focus on my passion project and write a book. But I am a hopeless romantic. I crave it. I crave burying my face in the neck of that one person whose scent I’ll never tire of, tasting their skin salt. I crave us laughing at things that aren’t funny to anyone else. And so, resolving to remain optimistic, I dated as restrictions eased. But I just can’t fake it, and hardly anyone ever makes me feel. I fear that lightening won’t strike for another decade. I can’t let myself linger on this thought because I have too much love to give. And I’m not always so melancholy, like I am here on the page. I’m a hoot! But for now, I’m exhausted, and on a man ban until 2021.