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Love is Absurd
Reflections on Modern Love
The first time I saw her, my brain hiccupped. Everything inside me — like a carousel stuck on fast-forward — ground to a halt. It felt like being hit by a train of silence.
Do you know what it’s like to crave silence? Real silence. Not the kind you get in libraries or headphones, but the kind that comes when your brain finally stops yelling at you?
Did I count the tiles? Did I straighten the rug? Did I align the toaster with the edge of the counter? Did I count the tiles? Did I straighten the rug?
But when I saw her, none of that mattered. Not the tiles, not the rug, not the toaster. The only thing that mattered was the way an eyelash clung to her cheek, impossibly perfect. My brain picked it up and ran with it, looping: the eyelash on her cheek, the eyelash on her cheek, the eyelash on her cheek.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds. She said yes after the third one, but I couldn’t leave it there. Six is safer than three.
Love is absurd. Did you know that? It’s standing in front of someone, trying to say something meaningful, and realizing you’re just a collection of compulsions stitched together by hope. And somehow, they still say yes.
