Where Annie went, it seemed, she left a trail of broken hearts in her wake. It wasn't as if she didn't care, wasn't as if she had no feelings about the men who fell in love with her--in fact, she loved them, too, in various ways and varying degrees. It hurt Annie, when she left them. It had always been her doing--she was the one to sense the end before it came, the one who felt life pressing on her back like a five-hundred-pound weight.
The end hurt them, all of them, and Annie was always the one who caused the end. It was their pain--that was what hurt Annie. It hurt her deep down inside, in the part of her heart reserved for love, for tenderness, the part of her heart she treasured the most. At times, it felt like her heart would break.
But it didn't. Though it hurt like hell sometimes, she always got through it. Again, and again. She knew the hurt would always come at the end--but she did it anyway. The hurting part of her heart had to heal, and love was the only thing that could heal it. The problem was that love was what caused the damage in the first place. It was an endless cycle--Annie loving, them hurting, her hurting, and then Annie loving again.
At least, it seemed endless. It wasn't, really. I'm afraid that I was the one who saw to that. There is no such thing as an endless cycle.
Have you ever heard of instant attraction? "Love-At-First- Sight," as the movies call it? I was thinking about that very subject when I met Annie. One night I was at a party, talking to a friend, when this woman, fairly nondescript, with brownish hair, walked up to me.
I was definitely thinking about love at first sight. Actually, my precise thoughts were: "I wish I could experience love at first sight. Instead, all I meet are women like this."
Annie and I didn't hit it off. She was a nonentity to me, and I was a nothing to her.
The next week, at another party hosted by the same group of friends, we were introduced to each other. And, several times that evening, we were forced to speak with each other. It turned out that we had quite a few mutual friends.
So I got to know her better. And I actually liked her. She seemed very confident, like she knew exactly what she wanted. I had no reason to doubt that. And I noticed something very funny about her--she wasn't nondescript, after all. She was actually somewhat pretty. And her brownish hair had a slight red tint to it.
We were the last people to leave when the party was over that night, and as I walked her out to her car, we kept on talking. About all sorts of things. And, somewhere in our conversation, Annie changed again. It wasn't as much of a physical change, this time, as much as a personality change. When I started talking to her, it was clear to me that Annie knew exactly what she wanted from life. But then she softened. And I saw her as being vulnerable, as being a confused woman with a lot of wide-eyed little girl running around loose inside of her.
I guess that's how she does it. Time and again, the softening will do it. I know that as soon as I saw that girl, I wanted more than anything to let her escape from the self-confident wall that Annie had built to protect herself.
And, one night, while we were sitting on her couch talking, a beautiful little red-haired girl popped out of nowhere. It was then that I saw all of Annie--the nervous, curious, childlike wonder of the little girl and the sensual, self-confident woman.
And when I kissed her, I felt a shudder of relief come from her body. It was as if the last barriers, the final layers of protection, had fallen away from her. And as they fell, a wave of fear-tinged passion flooded into her. We both clung to each other, like two sailors clinging to the mast of a sinking ship, hoping that each other's company could save us from the rest of the world.
In that embrace, we were safe from the world. Nothing could hurt us.
We were looking for perfection. We were looking for protection. And we couldn't have either.
My mind went about telling me that we couldn't stay the way we were, that we weren't really protected. It only took a few months for me to realize that we were vulnerable. For Annie, it took a little bit longer. I guess that was the first time that she'd been beaten to the punch by her partner. I don't envy her the feeling of being first to the realization--it always happened to her like that. But it only happened to me this once.
My mind started suggesting to me different ways that our relationship couldn't work. It started pointing out other women, women who were different, women where there was more of a chance of perfection. It slowly became obvious that what I had with Annie wasn't perfect, and I needed to move on. Maybe, if I kept going on long enough, the relationships would get more and more perfect.
It was an endless cycle, all right. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. If you always follow all three steps, you'll be in the shower until your fingers shrivel away. I'd be looking for the perfect relationship forever.
So why didn't anyone tell me about it then? I wish someone had.
You're not perfect, and I can't accept that. That's what I was saying. Once I've gone, you'll find someone better. You'll find someone perfect, or try.
I looked for the little red-haired girl, and she was gone. I tried to look in her eyes, deep down into her soul, looking for that girl. And, if I found her, maybe I would want to take her in my arms and hold her again.
There was nothing in her beautiful golden-brown eyes. At least, nothing that I recognized. The emptiness was a wall, stronger than her wall of self-confidence, and I had a feeling that I was the one who had helped built it.
Maybe the little girl was back there, the innocent little girl who didn't know love and, therefore, didn't know sadness.
But I'm afraid that all that was back there was pain. Because of me. I was the one who ended it. I should have known that it was coming, and I should have avoided hurting her, but I didn't.
How many times had Annie gone through what I was going through? How could she take it?
As I drove away for the last time, away from what we had been, I felt that this was the end.
I was tired of loving, and I was tired of pain. I was tired of feeling them, and I was tired of causing them.
The end of the cycle.
And I'm praying for a little girl, hoping there's one somewhere inside of her, one that I can bring out.
And I find myself wanting the same things, all over again. And I'm planning the same things, all over again.
When I find that little girl, though--what then?
Love. Pain.
And then, begin again.