I talked to him on Monday. It was a difficult, strained conversation, with long, drawn out silences. It was cold outside, and I stood there, on the sidewalk, a small dark speck against the grayness of the day, smoking a cigarette, feeling the fingers holding the phone to my ear get colder and colder, with a sudden and very acute awareness that the man on the other side was not the man I had taken a liking to.

Now I can write the story - a version of a Dorris Lessing story that seems to be most fitting. A trite story, for what we've got here is something trite, and trite is much easier to come to terms with.

***

A woman letting herself be deluded about the nature of a man she has taken a liking to. She ends it with him out of sheer exasperation, and spends days crippled with pain and longing. And yet, once aware of this delusion, all the brief moments of closeness that she thought they shared suddenly lose their meaning, and the warmth she used to feel for him quickly dissipates. She blames herself for her inability to see what in hindsight was obvious, gives a shrug, and moves on about her day.