By the time you realize you care, it’s too late. She’s moved on. She’s waited long enough.
He plays the game. Every move is coolly calculated, symmetrical with her every move. Nothing escapes. No feeling is beyond him. He is boldly aware. But before he knows it, it’s over.
Somewhere along the way he decided that he won, that his efforts sufficiently spun the wheels of affection so that they continue spinning freely. How wrong he is. Every time too.
“It is not a game.”
“Oh?” says I “Than why do you play by the rules?”
His response is as dead as it is rhetorical. I reply, “The cat and mouse, the hesitations, the calculated caroms, the mysterious reticence, the pervasive premeditation moderating every move? Why don’t you shed and share all, unmask your motives, lay down your cards?”
“Ha! I can’t do that!”
“Well, I suppose you could, but where’s the fun in that? There’s no excitement. The glories of love need to be delayed!”
Usually he waits with reserve. His only recompense is the razbliuto left by fond memories of feral fantasies.