Just before I moved, Rob and I held hands. We were lying in a North Carolina field, filthy and radiant and almost asleep. Beer-soaked hair. Stick-scraped legs. Slightly shredded hoodies and mud-mucked Vans. We were laughing and alone, and he rolled over to face me.
“I’m worried about you,” he said, and I shoved him. “No look, I am. You and me are the same. Our imaginations are amazing. We meet somene and we can dream about a whole future together, and that’s how people get hurt. The imagined future.”
He was totally right. When I dated the FBI guy and I thought, quietly, we would live in Soho and stay awake all night drinking milky tea. When I dated the lawyer and decided, in secret, we would give it all up and run an orange grove in Ibiza. But Rob forgot one thing: when you can imagine every possibility, none of them matter, and then you just stop caring.
Yesterday I saw this couple in the park, holding hands in the grass. They were boring, and together, and I wondered if they thought about each other when they were alone. Then my phone rang, a party, and outfit, and I promptly forgot all about it
[AMY REDFORD - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]