My heart is going to get me into trouble. Even at this early stage I know that. It's like I can see disaster, am walking into it, but can do absolutely nothing to stop myself.
“John is back to normal!” That's what verity said. But how can he be normal, just like that? It's not possible, unless he wasn't ill to begin with??? But he was ill. He was very ill. We all saw that.
“There was a storm. A black swirling mass of confusion. But now it has passed...” That's what John said. He left those bizarre words in a comment to post #32c. But then why didn't he call? Why isn't he back home? Why does he still refuse to speak to me when I phone the hospital? No, it's not right. I feel like a man who is being tricked.
Unfortunately I'm of that cut, susceptible I mean... all sad lonely people are. I'm not the only person to get someone into bed on a trail a tears and suicide talk and then convince myself that their kisses came from some place other than pity city. To lay there throughout the night staring into a pale pimply back and thankful for it. So what! It's still better than having nothing but a synthetic pillow to soak up the tears.
And that's it, I ignore logic, excuse confusion and don't think too hard as to why someone is there. That they are is enough. I don't mind someone putting rat poison in my coffee, as long as they touch my hand as they're handing me the cup. To feel wanted, even just for a second, that's my biggest fault. For that, I'd follow my heart right over the edge of the world. And that's how I know: Tristram Spencer is a fated man.