Love Is A Rational Decision

Love is a rational decision.
This a fact of the twenty first century.
There is no doubt about that.
Those who dare to argue are stuck in time.
Over.
– Sorry, but we don’t even know what telegram is.
– Then fax it over.
– …?
– I don’t have an access to internet, my phone battery died, what are other ways to connect these days?
– We could charge your phone, but then again, we only got a iPhone charger.
– I’ll send him a letter.
I’m trying to find a way to tell you, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.
My mind is finally sober.
The speed of life – settled.
I sleep in double bed and the right side of it is free.
I cook for two.
Children no longer disgust me. I even have a favourite one. Everyone says it’s not a healthy point of view, but for me it’s definitely a step forward.
I’m thirty and I made a decision to be with someone.
– And now? – he asks lying in bed.
– Now we will be.
He laughs. For some people (like me) the decision comes naturally, others need a little push towards the fact, so they come face to face with it and then you say:
– This is a Fact.
– Hm.
– Mhm.
– But I’m not ready.
– You’ll never be ready. But there is a feeling, isn’t there? You told me yourself, you said: I just want someone to be there for me/…
– …/and you said that you will/…
– …/ and I am.
– …
– …
– You are, but at the same time you’re turning into a nag.
– Listen, love, I got two diplomas (not including the high school certificate), I simply cannot wait around like a brainless twat for everyone to come to their true senses and realise that I am the woman they wish to spend a life with, – I narcissistically underline the pronoun.
– …
– Think about it, aren’t you tired?
– From what?
– You sleep around from the age of fifteen/…
– Fourteen, – he corrects me.
– Oh, yes, so sorry, I forgot to mention the prostitute you spent a night with on the eve of your birthday, – I get out of the bed.
– Where are you going? – he grabs my had and drags me back.
– I need to take a shower. I hope you’re gone, by the time I’m finished. Would you leave the window open, before you leave?
– You’re mentally ill, – he shares his insights.
– And you got used to free pussy, – we never talk about us, we always analyse male and female relationships, sometimes touching the subject of LGBT, and sometimes we generalise everything and talk about humanity per se.
– Fine! – he jumps out of the bed and begins to dress up, – Fine.
– What’s fine?
– …, – he is silent, no longer receiving information, I can tell by his look – the system is down, he is no longer responding to the outside.

I come closer, lean towards leaving an inch from his face and declare:
– In any case you will come back.
– …
He will, sooner or later. He keeps coming back, but still hasn’t come back for good. To keep coming back and come back for good are two different concepts. To keep coming back means that he is still in doubt, however already questioning him-self: is this love? To come back for good means he is sure.
He stands by the door going neither backwards nor forward. Something tells me he needs second opinion. I could convince him, but then again, I would not like to force my thoughts on him, what if his are completely different?
Maybe they are, but I’m surely familiar with mine. They span around in my head for some time now, I discussed them with all who cared to listen, so why not to share them with the one who caused them?
– Listen, – I begin earnestly, – I am thirty and I am too old to play games. Love is a rational decision. This a fact of the twenty first century. There is no doubt about that. Those who dare to argue are stuck in time. Over. I made up my mind, now it is your turn.
– …
– …
– …
– But, – but means that he is still looking for someone better.
The thing is, that I already found the better, but decision is made and I am keen to stick with it.
– The tale without an end, – I state.
– Isn’t that alluring? – he’s playing with my feelings, he knows that I read books and recently embraced Lithuanian fairy-tales and legends.
– It was a pleasure to know you, – pushing him out the door I admit.
– Is this it?
– It is, – I could never understand how come other are able to cut all the strings so easily: one day, until death do us part, then – boom! Silence. It appears that they turned the page over and there is nothing, not even a tiny line that mentions that deadly friend from the previous chapter. But then again, if others can, so can I.
– …
– Go on, – I ask pushing him, feet pressed firmly against the ground.
– You’re not serious are you? – Spaniards, open-hearted nation, they don’t believe in the persistence of northerners.
– Alright, I’m not, – I give up and close my-self in the bathroom.
I run the bubble bath, add some sea salt, as one writer said – this is my Mediterranean Sea. I take the clothes off, put one leg I, then another, I press my nose with two fingers and dive in hoping to come out clean and without a sin.
I blow bubbles under the water until I run out of breath, then come out, gasp for air like a fish and go back under, repeating this until I hear him knocking at the door.
– Are you alright? – he asks caringly.
– …, – I don’t reply, giving him some time to imagine the life without me. Allowing him to dwell on the thought, maybe this will help him to connect with his feelings.
– Maria!
– What?! – I open the bathroom door, water dripping onto the linoleum.
– I’m going, – he says looking down.
– Have you opened the window?
– …?
– …
We kiss, because we love each other.
The strange unhealthy love that will haunt us for the rest of our lives. The rational love, when you decide to leave the person you care about alone, because you know, that he/ she will do better without you.
And if not, he/ she will always have someone to come back to.

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Marija

"Lengva būtų visa tai pavadinti literatūriniu nudizmu, jei Marijos Djačenko kūryboje nebudėtų skaudus jautrumas tiems, kuriems atrodo, jog savo egzistenciją įmanoma pabrėžti ir susinaikinimu." - ROBERTAS KETURAKIS “It would be easy to call Marija Djačenko’s oeuvre literary nudism, if not the painful sensitivity to those who feel that their existence may be stressed by self destruction.” – ROBERTAS KETURAKIS