What would Dorothy Parker do?

So that was that, and this is how it is – to be left the losing player in a mug’s game. To know that you did what you did because of something in him that is rare, and that he is also as flawed as anyone else, and that he is gone. The end was stamped across the beginning, and there is no one to talk to, and no excuses. No answers, and barely any satisfactory questions.

Inevitably, a girl starts to wonder how much more of this there will be – of yes, buts and if onlys and things are nots. Whether in fact this is her choice, or if it is all she is capable of, or worth. Perhaps it will be her turn one day, or perhaps she does not wish it, or know how.

These are not things I wish to ponder, yet here we are. I am responsible for my choices. The tears will dry, and I will get up and go to work and have done. When did we get so tough, and so stupid?

I shall go and read Dorothy Parker in the bath.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.