Parallel World

Do I miss her?

I don't know what it was, about her. She always had a touch of that stiff awkwardness, that reined-in restraint, of a creature that isn't quite used to being around people. Or perhaps it was just that she was often so queerly proper. So formal.

It was almost as though she lived in another world. Behind the veneer of awkard ordinariness, she was somehow, odd. Out of place.

Too young, and certainly not wealthy enough, to be exactly... eccentric.

She had something of that air. It reminds me of what they said of Eliza Doolitle. About how there was something... incomprehensible... about her... to them. That it was almost as if she had grown up in a garden. Ironically, Covent Garden, of course.

I can hear the words. Her words.
In my mind.
Again.

"I don't want you to be the last-chance streetcar."

"I don't want you to become the one I ended up with because some biological clock ticked me into it."

"I'm leaving you."

"Leaving you could be the biggest mistake of my life."

"But that's also why Not Leaving you could be a bigger mistake."

Do I miss her?

I don't know.

To be honest.

I don't know.

...