So Much for Retiring from Love

There comes a point after enough romantic nonsense when you may quietly conclude that love has had a fair chance and should now stop knocking things over.

You are not devastated. You are not waiting for anyone. You are simply tired of the whole production.

The heart has retired.

And honestly, retirement is going beautifully.

You now have evolved beyond crushes. Perhaps romance was simply a youthful hobby, like collecting questionable handbags or believing that “I’m bad at texting” was a medical condition.

You sleep well. Your weekends are yours. You make plans without wondering whether some man will suddenly appear, disappear, reappear, become “confused,” need “space,” or develop a mysterious inability to communicate despite being perfectly capable of ordering food online.

Peace has arrived.

You like peace.

The heart, after years of unnecessary excitement, has settled somewhere pleasant with coffee, sunlight and absolutely no intention of getting involved again.

Lovely.

This theory can be extremely solid and convincing right up until one particular man appears and, with the breathtaking effort of simply existing nearby, makes the whole thing look slightly premature.

He does not need to arrive carrying roses or rescue anyone from a balcony. He may simply be near the coffee machine, saying something completely ordinary about the weather.

And for some reason, you notice.

Then you notice him again.

A five-minute conversation becomes oddly memorable. A hallway that previously had all the emotional appeal of a hallway suddenly becomes somewhere you would not object to passing through again. An otherwise forgettable afternoon receives a small but noticeable upgrade because he happened to be in it.

Naturally, none of this means anything.

There is merely a curious enthusiasm for one specific person’s presence.

You simply happen to know whether he has entered the room with the speed of a woman who was, until very recently, completely retired from all this.

Humans are excellent at maintaining official positions long after the evidence has wandered off in another direction.

And that is really the lovely part—not that he must become the great romance of your life, but that he has accidentally ruined a conclusion you had become rather fond of.

You had not lost the ability to feel this way. For a while, there simply had not been anyone who made you feel it.

There is quite a difference.

He may turn out to be wonderful, unsuitable or merely a charming interruption who disappears from the story almost as quickly as he entered it.

But apparently, love had not retired at all.

It had simply been sitting very quietly, minding its own business, until one man wandered past and gave it ideas.