I grew up reading Judith McNaught. Dreaming of a world where all men looked like Fabio. Where steeds and lace came part and parcel with any whirlwind romance. It was naive. It was beautiful. To think that life projected happy endings so freely, with new tapes on standby if the reel ended too soon.
I styled myself in the image of Sabrina, even bought a fish that I coyly named George. That I met David only played into the chimera. ‘It’s destiny! It’s fate!’ I’d think to myself.
But then there was Jared, and Lewis, and Phil. And looking back now I can’t help but feel fallow.
I thought it funny. I thought it sad. That by the time I finally made it to Paris, I no longer believed in love.