Picture a wise woman, tall, with perfect posture. She’s stoic but intent; listening but not showing any attachment. Intelligent. She makes remarks both humorous and thought-provoking. She readily admits she’s not seen it all but somehow knows she will never be surprised by anything. She could give you advice but would remind you that it’s completely your choice to take it or leave it. She is the epitome of rational. Almost flawless. Virtually perfect.
She would sit on a bar stool, arms neatly folded in front of her, a slight lean forward indicating her interest. She would nurse a drink in hand as she listens to accounts of betrayal and broken hearts. It might be a mug of tea or coffee because she loves both, or a glass of whiskey because wine doesn’t suit her. Whatever it is, she’ll raise it to her lips between short laughs and calm comments.
In a life filled with melodrama, she would be the audience to the telenovela. If life is a roller coaster, she’s the tired parent watching from the far side of the walkway. Empathy would only be seven letters to her. She would not feel the ache of having a heart. People will wonder if she’ll ever feel real happiness. She knows that she’s content where she is and that the sacrifice of her emotions was worth it.
There’s a girl sitting in the dark. She’s berating herself for her naivety. There’s nothing that can soothe her hurting heart, bleeding and soft. There’s nothing to stop her running mind, lost and confused. She feels the tears coming but she chokes them down determinedly. She’s learning that the world is harsh. She’s learning even her friends can make bad mistakes. She’s beginning to wonder if romance is overrated. She’s beginning to feel like no one can be trusted. She’s picturing herself as that wise woman with the drink in her hand. The burning lava of betrayal is cooling into hard stone around her young heart.