A New York psychologist once carried out an experiment in which he gathered strangers, told them to reveal intimate details of each others’ lives for half an hour and then stare at each other, passively, for four minutes. After such a brief encounter, these people felt a connection. The beating of their hearts echoed the sentiment which they believed to be true. This, it turns out, is the recipe for love.
I wonder, if we were to do the same, would you see something in me worth keeping? I wonder if you would close your eyes in the dark and picture us reading books to one another in the park, laughing whilst strangers stared and wondered What Do They Have That I Don’t. But I have the sneaking suspicion that only I would feel the connection. I would conjure up images of us, lying naked together, my fingers tracing the delicate curvature of your back. And then reality would settle in, I would see it in your eyes, the distinct look of someone who is not in love. You would leave me then and I would feel that loss in the faint pulsing of my naive, school-girl daydreams. If we did the same, I would only miss you and I Do Not Want That.