I don’t usually fall in love. Usually the timing is wrong; either she’s getting over a relationship, or I don’t have a job. Love didn’t work out for me the last time, either, so I have higher standards now. I usually have better things to do. Or, if something happens, then usually it’s not love after all; it’s infatuation, brought on by celibacy, and that never lasts. Usually I’m dreaming, and reality wakes me up. In reality, love and falling in love are different. Too many things can be wrong. But you wake me up from disappointment. When you unexpectedly take my hand, when you say “Hey you,” when you take a risk to confess your feelings, when you respect my odd ideas, when my honesty turns you on, when you probe to help me out, I’m not dreaming. Love doesn’t usually work out for me, but I don’t usually meet someone like you.
8 May 1985