No smoke without fire, no smoke without fire. Haha.
Miss Marple always said so, and Miss Marple is always right.
She said that people have a sense about these things. They're not right about the particulars, but they get the general picture, and well.
And she was right.

Is the reverse also true ? Jane Austen contends so. She says half of love is vanity- you are so delighted that someone should love you, that out of gratitude you go and love them as well. But that ought not to be love in the strictly correct sense. It ought to be falling in love with love. But is there a difference. Does it matter, the object of the love, at all ? Or is love merely another way of relating to yourself ? Jung said so- he said something to the effect that the partner a person chose was a projection of the unexpressed side of their personality.
Ah well. Who knows.

Miss Marple, but Christie's dead now, so that's no help.

There was a dead lizard in the bathroom today. In the corner, under the door.
I noticed it because of the ants. The swarms of ants around it, jealously covering it up, wholly devouring it. Climbing on top of each other to get to that dry, white underbelly facing upwards, hungry, red.
I stared at it. I couldn't stop. I stared at it and then I backed out of the loo and tried to avoid looking at it again. Nausea rose at the thought of it lying there, sickening, yellow-green thing, tail a stub, eyes hidden beneath the mound of scavengers cleaning it up.
Why is this important ? There are lizards by the hundreds here, they all have to die sometime, and the ants... i know that this happens. Like when there are dead animals in the road. But it isn't when they're just dead that it's horrible, even though they smell, and shrivel and stiffen in positions of pain. It's when they're crushed, or mutilated in some way that I cringe inside, and shiver and hurt.
Would it be better to die unsullied than to live mutilated ? I think so. But then, I have no experience of dying.

the conversation after.

We shouldn't be here. We should be at home, glued to our television screens like the rest of humanity.

The blasts in Baghdad ?

The floods in Bihar.

Typhoons in Bangladesh.

Hurricanes in north America.

Civil war in Rwanda.

In large parts of Africa.

What else ?

Someone got raped in the Capital.

Someone is always being raped in the Capital. No offence to the deeply disturbed victim, but Delhi seems to be quite the place for those getting raped.

And those doing the raping.

O yes, those too.

And we should be home, appendages to the television screens.

Definitely, extensions of them that we are... This isn't it. What is it ?

What is something someone said today.

Alright, so many specifics down, just a few more to go...

Someone said it was time in the Harry-met-Sally saga for us to be... falling for each other.

Who was it ? Irrelevant, but who ?

Some girl. I don't remember her too well. The point was, she said it, but she more than meant it, she meant it as though she was the spokesperson for public opinion in general.

Yes, well, she might be.

But…

Hm ?

It isn’t… true.

Not for me, either, you don’t have to look all apprehensive.

Phew. But you to me was the more unlikely, anyway.

Another weird complex ? But then, I am the hotter one, yes…

And the more modest one-

I knew you were going to say that. You really have to think of something new.

Are you trying to divert the conversation ?

Not really. I’d only have to do that if I was uncomfortable, wouldn’t I ?

Oh, I don’t know…

Again with the noone-can-see-into-another-person’s-head thing? You know me inside out. Don’t quibble about it. You do.

…

And now you’re trying to change the topic. Now it’s my turn to wonder…

No, I don’t have feelings for you, O swollen-headed-one. And I was trying to explain, but I sort of messed it up badly, because… there wasn’t any reason.

Why not, you mean ?

Yes.

Well… actually. The gap in surface attributes, of course… just kidding, kidding…

Seriously, can you think of anything?

N…no.

So then how do you explain ?

I don’t. The people who need to know, understand.

Yes, but sometimes, you- well, not you, I. I’ve got to explain this to other people. Explain that I’m not in love with you, and why. Silly thing to have to explain, and more difficult than I expected…

Yes, but get on with it. You want my opinion on what you should say ? I’d still say nothing. But, if you must…

No, I just realized… that someone’s already mentioned it.

Who ?

He. He mentioned it one evening when we were sitting out in a slight, cool drizzle and a thin breeze blowing, and we were talking about idols…

Hm…?

…And he said that the two things were separate, this surface admiration, and the feeling. He said that he could think a girl beautiful, but it didn’t change what he thought of her, or felt about her, one inch.

So is it three separate things, then ? Admiration, for surface attributes, liking, and love ?

Yes, I think so. Lovely, simple way to put it, wasn’t it ? And he said he’d never seen the point behind people idolizing others for what they were. For something they were without effort, naturally. For one thing, it wasn’t to their credit that they should, for example, have some great natural skill at acting. And at the same time, by admiring what they were, you were setting yourself up for an unnecessary and, necessarily disadvantageous comparison, why am I this and not the other ? It makes no sense. You are what you are. Admire someone for the effort they have put in to learn something, acquire some information, some better methods of doing things. That’s something they’ve done, and it’s fair to judge them on that.

Listen, you…

Hm…. What ?

You know, you’re talking about him an awful lot. And with this oddly soft voice… Are you sure… you don’t… you know,…

Oh shut up. That’s the way he talks. Softly and reflectively. And I’m not in love with him, I just like him. And why… you’re voice changed slightly there, and your face… Why do you care ?

He is so beautiful. A beautiful man. That almost aquiline nose, that perfect profile, the bright black eyes amidst the brown, brown skin; straight shoulders, tall. How beautiful even there on the street corner, slouched, sitting on the curb, waiting for me. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, this is one of those- those tryst-descriptions, things you don't need to know, that most lovers seem to need to tell. Believe me, when it happens to me, I won't be telling a soul. It's too private, that stuff.
This is my friend. My best friend.
And now you are sceptical. We do moonlight, in a way. This is how we meet, meeting to talk sitting on a not-so-busy corner of a bustling street, quietly. I'm pausing here, amidst the crowd, to finish telling you this, finish explaining, before I go to sit near him, because then we cannot be interrupted. And before that, you've got to know.
Why ? Because they're all wondering. Wondering how long we'll keep this up, before we go the hollywood way, and end up just one more sheepishly grinning and surreptitiously PDA-ing pair. We aren't going to. I wanted to tell you. Sorry if I let you down, but I suppose I believed those movies at some point too. Until it just didn't happen to me.
It's happened to a lot of people, about him. Girls gather in corners to sigh as he passes. I couldn't talk in front of him initially. He seemed so complete, finished, with al the friends he needed, all the world he had room for. What was I going to give him that he didn't have? But it wasn't about that at all, as it turned out.
Cut to the stuff, you're saying now. We're both of us in a hurry, and I want to pass my judgement on your future before both of us get late. Alright.
We talked. Talked in between everything else happening, not really a significant first talk or anything, we weren't realy very interested anyway. Not much in common. And there were lots of more interesting people around for both of us. Talked again in a rickshaw going somewhere in a bunch, and then some other times. I listened, mostly, not comfortable enough to talk. I think I must be a good listener. At some point, we began to stop each other in the hallways to narrate incidents. Barely ever talked no the phone, though- never enough balance. I don't remember the exact timeline, something and then something else, and then something else. Eventually it came to where we are now.
Feelings ? Comfort. Not that perfect understanding where neither of us have to explain anything. I explain what I mean when I'm being vague, and he tells me I'm being an ass. He explains what he means when he's being hi-fi, and he tells me I'm being an ass. But we do understand each other, in this odd way. He understands the face I have on when I'm getting into character. I understand when he doesn't want to talk, and why. I understand that he's a child in some of the most annoying ways possible. He understands that sometimes I feel all lost and rescue-me, and gives me the lack of encouragement that I need. We're children and teenagers and adults together, but hardly ever the same thing at the same time. But when our moods coincide, I can remember every word of every conversation, and they all glow.
I can't fall in love with him. Not ever. And I can't explain why. There's no reason- no incompatibility, no issues of any kind. When other women talk of him possessively, I don't care. He's mine more than he is his girlfriend's even, as of now. She's new. He's going to tell me about her, he's texting her now. I'm certain he's going to tell me, and at length. He's looking at me, and his face is funnily besotted, and yet, still in command of hs sense of humour, which saves him, and will save me this evening.
I don't know if I've explained, in my messed-up, roundabout way. I might have; if not, I will later. I'd love to be in love with him, but he's too close, slipping right under my radar. My radar is on, by the way. If you know anyone interesting, let me know. See you in a bit.