3 CROWS, 2 WOMEN, & ME
It occurred to me that I’m not so good at saying “I love you” to anyone who would say it back. I kinda wish I could go in for that beautiful mutuality, but something deep inside me doesn’t want it. The last time I did, mind, was in a desperate, hungry affair, bathed in omens and punctuated with heartbreak. We doted on one another and treated every sign like a confirmation of the mystical depth of our love, as if its fate were written in the stars. I think deep down we both knew we were scared.
On the road outside Kilkenny she spoke of the Irish spirit Morrígan, that sometimes she manifests herself as three crows. Just as the words left her lips, three crows landed in front of our coach. The dark goddess was leading us to our death. At the time, of course, we loved this lil synchronicity. On the same holiday, the mere sight of this partner of mine prompted an Irishman to cross himself. Again, I was proud. Here was my dark lady.
There were many many more such happenings¹, as there always is when the love is so potent and dangerous, and looking back I can see that it was our over-obsession with these omens that signalled our misfortune, rather than the omens themselves. That’s not to say they merely are what you make them. Just that we assumed we knew what the Gods were telling us, and pathetically obeyed it rather than trusted our instincts. Arrogance and humility all in the wrong places. Needless to say, it all ended horribly, and although my faith in our dark prophecy had been shattered, my mind was now agape with paranoia.
Years later I would fuck it up with another woman. I was sitting with her in a field, and you’ll never guess, but three bloody crows appeared before us. I said nothing, having not briefed her on this particular neurosis. I craned my neck to and fro in the hope of seeing just one extra crow to break the spell, but to no avail. So I took it as a sign to get out rather than wait around again for heartbreak. This, plus other things: their names were loosely similar I guess. Their aspects, vaguely so if you squinted your eyes to the point of blindness. They had similar heights, give or take a foot or two. Their relationships with their father had a few comparisons which at the time I felt were blatantly alarming and symptomatic of some dreaded PATTERN of mine. Now I look back and realise that most dads are deadbeat, most women’s names share letters, and that dark hair is simply my type. A scientist would call it confirmation bias. Not being a scientist myself (and not even liking them) I’d choose a phrase more flowery and mystical to describe my delusions.
Delusions which, incidentally, got worse - I even noticed a numerological omen based on my birth date and their respective numbers in the list of my life’s sexual partners. It was only months later that I realised I’d missed a girl out - the numbers didn’t add up, I’d just wanted them to so badly. I dumped this new woman over the phone in the most cowardly way possible - I exhibited an anxious lethargy about the whole thing until she essentially had to dump herself. It wasn’t the first nor the last time I’d do something like this, but probably the most shameful example - she was heartbroken, and I felt great afterwards. Because I hadn’t let myself fall in love. Because, this time round, I’d let the omens be more funny than scary. I’d had my fun and escaped apparently unscathed.
A year later we fell back into contact, me and this wronged woman whom I’d judged so harshly against my ex. After just a few texts we bumped into each other at the station by chance. I remember how pained and harmless she looked. The next night we went out for a beer. I apologised, sincerely. She read me a poem she’d written about me in the midst of the rejection - I distinctly remember the line: “I realised you’d rather spend the weekend wanking over me than actually seeing me”. Another - “I thought you were going to wrap me in fairy lights”. Another referenced “accordion keys”. The poem illustrated her heartbreak exquisitely, if wrapped up a little safely in her existentialism. I broke down crying. I was in love.
The incense and soft silk sheets and glimmer of her big dark eyes all now took on a new aspect, richer and deeper than before. The sunsets became brilliant. Ugly housing estates were painted pink and gold. I was in love. We sipped negronis and toyed with each other linguistically. Everything about her was perfumed. She no longer let me jump into bed with her, and when she did, she was stiff and unsure, I was pathetic and all-giving. During sex I told her I loved her and she didn’t say it back. When she left the country again I awaited every text message like a drug. When she said she wasn’t looking forward to my visiting her, I felt my stomach shrivel.
That was almost two years ago, and I’ve not told a romantic partner that I love them since. I only feel like saying it when they’re drawing away. Only the desperate push and pull keeps me on my toes nowadays. So I don’t let my world become anyone. And I have so much love in my life, I just spread it around, where the chance of pain is divided. And I only say “I love you” to family, platonic friends, or during masturbation, where nobody gets hurt. ²
¹including a shared UFO sighting that I still feel to be genuine
²except the baby Jesus of course