Jesse needs to wake up: get off the fence. Love is not only about feelings, it is about proof of feelings. He needs to find a way of showing his inamorata that her life would be immeasurably better with him. He needs to be indispensable without being controlling; inspirational without ego.
Unfortunately for him, my mistress has been so hurt that her merry little heart has shrivelled.
It was the same for my master—he never recovered from Charlotte’s rejection. Gradually he detached from the world, exhausted by an imploded heart and a collapsing body. He moved constantly, from the countryside, to different apartments in Paris, and even to London for a spell. This peripatetic lifestyle was an effective way of avoiding memories of those little intimacies accrued through shared experiences: the tavern where they had met; the taste of a type of bread she had liked; the bars of a song she had sung; a nape of a neck that resembled hers. Gradually his aloofness from the world became complete: he lived alone with his illness and his dreams. His contempt for material interests increased. When his friend Caylus begged him to seek treatment for consumption in a hospital, Antoine snorted, “Isn’t the worst that can happen to me the hospital? No one is refused admittance there.” He did not want to be part of a club that would have him. My master died aged thirty-six. Alone.
I don’t wish this pathetic outcome on anyone, let alone the lovely Annie; I just don’t see love as a panacea or the grassy track connecting dark and light. I want her to prove my worth, to sell me, to set herself free financially, at least. I want her to enjoy creature comforts, to have the space and means to fulfil her dreams. I have not always brought luck to my owners: this time it must be different.