After five divorces and more failed relationships than I can recall, you’d think I would had given up on ever finding ‘true love’. Especially at my age, I will be seventy next week.
Truth is, I have never for a second believed in true love.
Wherever did that foolish notion of there being the perfect someone out there for everyone come from? Shakespeare? The Bible? Some wan and sickly Gothic poet?
I don’t know and I don’t care enough to bother Googling it.
Yet I have always felt that something is missing in my life, I kept trying to fill that void with the next woman to come along. I think that is ultimately why things broke down each time, they were never quite right. They never did fill that empty space inside me.
A new woman has moved into the retirement home, I saw her arriving this morning with what appeared to be her son. She’s quite attractive for her age, quite light on her feet.
I’m going to strike up a conversation first chance I get, maybe ask me to accompany me to dinner on my birthday.
I’m not searching for true love.
Honestly I’m not.