ABSTRACT
I married her twice. She divorced me twice. The first time brutally, the second time, very coldly. The love we shared was anything but cold. I was pinned quite forcefully by it into a union, that became for me, the very fabric of my life. I learned more than I ever thought it might be possible to learn from another; I still mourn her absence, I still dream of her, vividly, strangely, hauntingly. I sometimes wish that she had died, imagining this would change the nature of my memory, and my gaping sense of loss. Perhaps her death would render romantic what really had not been a romantic affair-intense, transforming, dissembling, chaotic, exciting, dangerous, all of these-but not romantic.
