[ WP ] You lament for your lost lover as , unbeknownst to you , your wife walks into the room .

I met a girl once. 
 
 I met a her at a beautiful party on a crisp, magic night, the kind where everything that has ever been mundane is showered with golden light and propped up perfectly to be wonderful -- to make you wonder why you had ever been such a fool as to not love everything you ever saw. 
 
 But she went and made every splendid thing that night had to offer look like a child's arts-and-crafts project. 
 
 From the first moment I saw her, I loved her -- loved her unconditionally, wholly, and completely. A few drinks and some laughing, bubbly conversation later, I loved her physically. 
 
 I can say this casually now, but my only reason for it is that I have given up the use of words in describing the splendour in my experience with her. It felt like my life's greatest ambition had been achieved, that heroin users, poor chumps that they were, got an unacceptably small amount of pleasure, comparatively, for a lot of addiction as consequence. 
 
 Not to say that I was n't addicted of course. Even in the act I planned everything -- dating, hopefully a marriage, anything to consummate, validate, and hopefully perpetuate a kind of life, joined with her, for as long as possible, selfish as that was. 
 
 And then, she thanked me for my hospitality, and left. 
 
 Without so much as an exchange of names she left me, a savage who had just seen light, gasping for just one more smell of her and vying for just one more sight. 
 
 I tried to live a normal life afterwards. Married you. Took a nice job. Had some kids, God bless'em. Sure, everything would always be a compromise, but it would be ridiculous just to up and *die* after you find out that you ca n't have what you've always wanted and never known. 
 
 Right? 
 
 So now, every weekend I go into my closet, and cut up a bunch of glamour magazines. Pasting them together into a crude, ugly pastiche of the moaning, perfect woman that I have seared into my mind, and I do it shamelessly. Maybe when it's done I'll burn it, and finally be over with the damned thing. 
 
 Either way, I loved you, and I still do. I love you as I love mild summer days and dim satisfaction from good work. 
 
 And what could have been will never change that. 
 
 Right?
