An angel 

It ended that day as he never expected.

He lost all hope, and finally all scope to move and drive and centre his life in some way that would have made some sense of it all.

He didn’t know, even now, what was expected of him.  Once he’d assumed, right at the beginning, that one gentle phonecall would’ve been quite enough to sort the stuff of sad past in some small way or other.

But then she had dropped the portcullis of her fury, the moment he suggested – in emailed complication – that really she’d been tied up by underbellied hatreds: that really they’d both been damaged through other horrendous interests: that really she’d never been ill, and only mad mysterious machinations had made it otherwise.

And as soon as he suggested revisiting and righting this last, that was when her drawbridge pulled up on him forever.

Twice she’d said no; and twice was quite enough.  Once should’ve been plenty.

But no.  He had always assumed he knew better; always assumed he did it out of love rather than obsession.

No longer could he pretend.  No longer could he tend to the misery of disbelief.

And that’s when he lost hope, and that’s when he lost scope.

He didn’t give up because he was made of the wrong tough.  He gave up because simply, primarily, she had told him twice, in no uncertain terms, she didn’t need him.

And so he had to accept this.

And he had to find some way of accepting it.

And as yet, it escaped him mostly. Not altogether, but mostly it was just about true.

He still might have conserved a tad of curious desire, maybe out of a certain masochism of rejection. 

Or maybe just because he was a little bit kinder than she was, and sometimes the job and destiny of the kind is precisely to be the ones who get hurt the greatest.

Maybe it was that, and maybe it was.  And maybe the solution would finally come when he found another, or another found him, or both found the other, and both of these two were much kinder than she ever had managed to be.

Yes.

Maybe when that happened, the end would have arrived.

Maybe when that happened, he would be free at last.  Free of the cruelty of those who claim to know what’s best for one, out of a fascism of the emotions which no one should consider love.

And when he found that woman, or that woman found him, then perhaps the evil which had hurt him so would finally be laid to rest.

And the rest of his life could then be the best of his life.

And so he would have won.

With the help of the strangest being there ever had been.

An angel who touched him with her brains and her kindness and her good and her should.

An angel who flew into his arms.

An angel who had loved him more than he had imagined, and much much longer than he could have known.

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