Love was the final consolation, would set ablaze the fields of my life in one go, leaving nothing behind。 I thought of it as a force which would clean me and by its presence make me worthy of it。 There was no religion in my life after early childhood, and a great faith in love was what I had cultivated instead。 Oh, don't laugh at me for this, for being a woman who says this to you。 I hear myself speak。
Even now, even after all that took place between us, I can still feel how moved I am by him。 Ciaran was that downy, darkening blond of a baby just leaving its infancy。 He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen。 None of it mattered in the end; what he looked like, who he was, the things he would do to me。 To make a beautiful man love and live with me had seemed-obviously, intuitively-the entire point of life。 My need was greater than reality, stronger than the truth, more savage than either of us would eventually bear。 How could it be true that a woman like me could need a man's love to feel like a person, to feel that I was worthy of life? And what would happen when I finally wore him down and took it?