Today I have been thinking about romance. As a novelist of twisted romances I suppose I should be thinking about it all the time.
I have found real romance to be very rare. Having been married for twenty-one years there isn’t much room for it any more.
I always remember something that happened to me which was as close to a truly romantic gesture I can think of. I was at university and sitting in the library reading room. I was a first year. I went away to get a book and came back. When I sat down there was a note on my desk.
It said: You are absolutely beautiful and I’m not one for absolutes.
I looked around but I couldn’t see anyone who could have left it. I thought about asking the girl opposite if she had seen who it was but I didn’t. I knew it was someone in my Philosophy class because we had been studying Plato’s absolute forms that week.
I didn’t ever find out who it was.
This sort of thing doesn’t usually happen to me and men don’t normally tell me I’m beautiful except my husband who probably does it because he thinks he has to. I always wonder why whoever it was didn’t reveal himself to me. It was a gift given without hope of return. Now that is romantic.
It’s a beautiful memory.