To make love takes two… or three… four, if you like that sort of thing… no, darling, five is inappropriate.”

Originally: “Love takes two” – anonymous

1. an emotionally-induced affliction or ailment, especially the variety that results from a heartache; “In the unpublished sequel of Mrs Clarke’s novel, Mr Strange learns that he will never see his wife again and eventually succumbs to illusopein.” & “The official report released by the department of historical literature and forensics suggests that the late Ms Capulet would have succumbed to a severe case of illusopein even if she somehow managed to survive her suicide attempt.”

“Woe betide the man who so suffers from illusopein, such is the cruelty of the heavens that those who suffer from spiritual death would suffer bodily as well.” – obscure 7th century Indian philosopher and theologian.

note: please read on the actual condition “Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy”, in fact an actual cardiovascular disease.

But I wish you were here.

It’s cold and wet and outside the headlights all glare red, unkind.

Mommy’s made a huge pot of spaghetti; it’s got huge sun-burnt tomatoes and chunky meatballs and white button mushrooms in it.

But I’ve got no you to share it with.

This is a hundred times and one already, or two hundred and one.

But, darling, I wish you were here.

It’s autumn now, the leaves all falling off the trees and the women sit in churches on first easter mondays crying for their boys all dead and dying.

There’s a swell party and pretty carousels at the fair and I know you’d probably really like to go even if I wouldn’t.

But you aren’t here, baby.

I wish you were.

That’s a hundred and two, right, or two hundred and two?

“There isn’t a day when I don’t think about my dearest Charlie.” said Diana.

“Tass’ right, lass. I’m tellin’ yer,” coughed Jack, ”ther ain’t no day when I ain’t find meself thinkin’ of me lady, Sally Tates, neither.”

“You know,” remarked Diana thoughtfully, ”for a poorly sailor, you’re not all unpleasant company at all, I must say.”

“Aww, tass’ an awferlly kind thing fer you ter say, missus D.”

They strung her from the old willow cross the way.
And the moment before she died,
She lifted up her lovely head and cried.”

- Ella Fitzgerald, Miss Otis Regrets

“That’s a real pity,” said the fat Mrs Cat, “I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“You can bring a donkey to the well but you jolly well can’t make it drink from the well.” chided Mrs Snake.

“I,” retorted Mrs Dog, “am not a donkey.”

“What’s wrong with donkeys?” asked Mrs Mule who looked rather miffed.

“Nothing, nothing.” mumbled the three others.

All four of the great old ladies sat on a long table in a grand hall. A feast was laid out on the table and particular attention was paid to the seafood; all manner of fish and mollusk were presented in different ways – huge raw oysters, whole grilled scallops, pan-seared tuna belly, stuffed lobsters, deviled crab-cakes, a giant sourdough bowl of clam chowder and Mrs Snake’s perennial favorite, caviar ravioli, among the other many delights of the sea.

Various artifacts spanning decades and centuries crowded the walls of the hall; ancient suits of armour and a collection of antique firearms occupied most of it. Mrs Mule thought this was quite a dreadful place for a luncheon but Mrs Cat seemed quite intrigued.

“What a delightful place you have here, Mrs Snake, I simply love these over-sized tin-cans!” said Mrs Cat pointing at a piece of armour from the 17^th century whose previous owner was a proud French king, “you must invite us more often to lunch at your magnificent home!”

“Of course, the Snake family mansion is rich with history and deeply embedded in tradition!” said Mrs Snake, “we’re as good as royalty, honestly.”

“I don’t quite like it here,” said Mrs Mule, who immediately noticed Mrs Snake glaring at her, and added quickly, “but the ravioli really is quite heavenly.”

Mrs Snake grunted approvingly.

“I agree,” said Mrs Cat, “besides, anywhere would be better than our previous rendezvous.”

Mrs Dog dropped her fork loudly on the floor and cried out, “It’s not my fault I didn’t prepare for our meeting! I really forgot about it!”

“Darling, your dirty laundry was all over your dirty couch and you served us chinese takeaways leftover from the night before!” stated Mrs Cat in a matter-of-fact way.

“Well, what did you expect? Foie gras on gold-leafed plates? Iced mint tea and chocolate scones?” shrilled Mrs Dog.

“Scones would have been nice!” said Mrs Cat indignantly.

“Ladies, please!” interjected Mrs Mule, “spare a thought for our host.”

All of them turned to look at Mrs Snake, whose lips were drawn back so tightly they were turning almost white. Mrs Cat reached out for her third helping of pan-seared tuna belly and Mrs Dog picked up her fork, resuming her meal with feigned interest. A deep silence pervaded the ladies’ lunch, interrupted only by the scratching sounds of cutlery on fine porcelain china.

…

We would meet somewhere near the train station, wait for each other until we were both present. We would greet each other with a simple hello, no peck on the cheek, no arms around each other; just a simple greeting. “Hello there”. “Hi”. Then we would walk together to the stop to wait for something else – a bus. While along the walk, we would talk, nothing about work, nothing philosophical, nothing about beliefs, even if each other had their own, nothing about anything we wouldn’t feel like talking about. We would talk about our childhood, about holidays to distant places, about our dreams, about our nightmares, about our deepest, darkest fears and nothing but about each other.

 When the right bus arrived, we would continue our flight from the world while the moving mechanical beast would take us far away to Somewhere We Would Want To Be. On the way to Where We Would Want To Be, we would pass many other people on their ways to Where They Want To Be. We would pass tall concrete buildings, empty houses with empty souls, overhanging street lamps casting their soft glow on the windows. The further we would go, the further we would leave Things behind. Until we would pass through a lonely road surrounded by grey trees. Our eyes would flicker while the branches of the trees flashed their silhouettes.

Only when the right stop arrived would we alight, leave the beast to crawl its way back, leave the last bit of the world behind. When we would find ourselves at Where We Would Want To Be, we would catch a whiff of brine, a glimpse of the Sea. Then we would walk a while longer to the Beach End, look for a place to sit, search for the right spot and we would sit.

We would sit. We would talk and talk; and talk until we would be so full of each other, we would not be certain about whom was who. We would watch the waves wash themselves to shore, taste the salty air, feel the breeze through our hair. Until we would have nothing left to say, we would have no regrets, we would have fled the world. We would have become each other, and knowing that, we would hold each other.

We would know. We would know that one would stand, leave for the Things we had left, leave the other who had come so far together with, away from the world; like an escape from an escape. But what we knew would matter little. Because we would have chosen for ourselves already.

…

So, there was this dream, you see. We thought we knew where we would be going, who would leave whom and what we would choose. The truth is, we don’t know and we won’t ever, until we have struggled against it ourselves. We might still be sitting there, thinking of an escape from an escape. Or we might not. You could be here right now and if I think about it hard enough, you will be. I’d be there for you too.