Meta

Do you ever think it’s all been said before – that everything about romance has been said before? Priya says. That we can’t say a single new thing? … It’s as if all the words have already been prepared. All the scripts for lovers’ talk. All the things lovers have said. And we only get to quote …

Lovers always talk about their love, I say. Lovers are pleased with ourselves. Pleased with what has been given them, by way of the other. In our little bubble of love.

You make it sound terribly smug, Priya says.

It is smug, I say.

I don’t think we’re pleased with ourselves, Priya says. We’re kinda angsty.

Nature’s thrown us a treat, I say. We’re supposed to be grateful. To moon over one another in gratitude. When really it’s part of the whole machine.

What machine? Priya asks.

It’s the honey trap, I say. Nature’s honey trap. That’s what it’s called isn’t it: when they lure you in via someone pretty. Some hottie specifically sent out to target you. You see, nature wants us trapped. Confined. Seeking all our salvation from another …

Who should we be seeking it from?

We think romance is an exception, I says. That we’ve been given all this as a special gift. All these feelings … This elation … This craving … It’s all it’s supposed to be. That’s the very sane madness of lovers. Their rational irrationality. Their law-abiding prohibition. To which all of us succumb, without exception.

Aren’t we lucky? we think to ourselves, I say. Why can’t everyone be as lucky as us? And then we become evangelists of love. Trying to pair all our friends up. Telling people the story of our romance. How we got together. Our ur-story. About when the world relented. When the remorseless logic of it all just pulled back for a few moments. When we were granted an apparent reprieve.

I think it’s a reprieve, Priya says. It’s our secret kingdom. A secret just between the two of us. That no one will know but us.

God, hasn’t there always been enough of us? I say. Too much of us? Don’t you ever get tired of who we are?

You’re so meta, Priya says. You can’t just experience stuff. You can’t just give yourself over to things.

Nor can you, I say.

Touché, Priya says. But that’s your fault. You’ve made me philosophical.