Monday, April 14


A few months ago an ex-boyfriend from London tried to contact me again. I was tired of boyfriends, especially the ones from London, their designer clothing, their goals which seemed simple and shallow, their unhealthy obsession with their looks. M. seemed genuinely interested in me for a while. He sent me a few e-mails asking how I was doing. I told him I was doing great, something I always answer, despite the circumstances. He told me he had his own company in Luxembourg, something to do with technology, and had not been back in London for a while. Part of me expected him to invite me, something which I would politely decline of course, and part of me feared the confrontation with my past. I was attached to my own version of our memories, the way we had explored life when we were younger, our ability to be happy with anything, anywhere, even without cash. I worried he would not like me, the older, more cynical version of the girl he used to love. I worried about losing weight, getting the right haircut, driving a new car. After a few weeks he stopped replying to my e-mails. Apparently I had supplied him with enough information, or the information which I gave him didn’t fulfill his needs. Maybe I wanted him to tell me what I always tell myself: ‘Don’t be lonely, Margot. The entire universe is inside you.’