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It was our passion for words and our ardent desire to write that drew me and Michael together, and the same that drove us apart.Michael wanted to be a great playwright, like the former master Molière. He had high ambitions and scorned what I wrote as frivolous and feminine.‘All these disguises and duels and abductions,’ he said contemptuously, one day a year or so after our affair began, slapping down the pile of paper covered with my sprawling handwriting. ‘All these desperate love affairs. And you wish me to take you seriously.’‘I like disguises and duels.’ I sat bolt upright on the edge of my bed. ‘Better than those dreary boring plays you write. At least something happens in my stories.’‘At least my plays are about something.’‘My stories are about something too. Just because they aren’t boring doesn’t mean they aren’t worthy.’‘What are they about? Love’ He clasped his hands together near his ear and fluttered his eyelashes.’‘Yes, love. What’s wrong with writing about love? Everyone longs for love.’‘Aren’t there enough love stories in the world without adding to them?‘Isn’t there enough misery and tragedy?’Michael snorted with contempt.‘What’s wrong with wanting to be happy?‘It’s sugary and sentimental.’‘Sugary? I’m not sugary.’ I was so angry that I hurled my shoes at his head.
