It was ideal.
He liked her. She liked him. He made her smile.
They could talk. And she wanted to.
She hoped he wanted it too. Or so she thought.
He was in a new affair. A new face. A new name. Everyday.
And she wondered, if they were all very pretty and intelligent.
It bothered her so much that she never asked him, ever.
She was... well, out of an affair. 'Relationship', if you don’t find that word comfortable.
She enjoyed today with him. Tomorrow she stored up conversations to repeat to him. The day after existed too, but not very clearly.
She dwelt on 'maybe'.
For a person who wasn't able to love someone whom she was in love with, being faithful had never been an issue.
For someone who was self protective, he didn't want to love. And he wasn't sure if he wanted her to love him. He might be unfaithful.
Everyone except the two of them knew it was love.
She really didn't know. She knew she could. She didn't know if she already had.
He didn't. Or maybe he didn't know. That's what he said. Or pretended.
Looking was easy. Seeing was incomprehensible.
Author's Note, 26'th september 2013
I saw this lying in my drafts folder. Tweaked it a bit and posted it here. Now I wonder if this was all entirely my work. Trying to figure out how and why it's been in my draft's folder for the last almost 4 years :(.