I don’t know if I believe in romantic
love, but I do believe in gin and whiskey and wine and good conversation. And sometimes I believe in cigarettes
and beer. And, sure, I believe in love – that’s how I mark my maturity, by
who I say, “I love you” to. Recently
I went back to Chicago just to tell my friends I loved them. These days I say love easily to friends old friends and new friends alike almost
instantly because I like to think that I appreciate the indelible fickleness of
time.
These days, when I say, “I love you,” I
am saying, “I think I might share the
idea you have of yourself and if you want to drink to forget it, I will drink
with you, and if you want to cry about it, I will drink with you, and if I want
to cry about it, I hope you will
drink with me.”
And, of course, I believe in
romance. I believe in midnight
bottles of wine and 4 a.m. walks and the way it feels to hold hands in a
crowded room for the first time.
But when it comes to romantic love,
call me a hopeful atheist. I think
it’s all a bunch of evangelism.
It’s not out there – but I hope I can be proven wrong.
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