David McElroy

She says she still loves him. Still wants him. Still treasures him above all others.

But she also spent half of our time at dinner tonight telling me the ways she wants to hurt him. She knows things about his business affairs that could hurt him if she revealed her secrets. There’s something he did recently that would embarrass him if his friends knew. She knows his secrets — and she’s trying to decide which of these terrible traps to spring.

She says she loves him. She says he means more to her than anything. But he has rejected her now — nicely, gently, but still a rejection — and this man who means everything to her must pay. She intends to hurt him.

I had dinner with this friend tonight. She had been engaged for six months until her love told her a month ago that he thought they were making a mistake. He was decent and kind, but he broke the engagement. He ended their relationship.

For weeks, I had offered no advice. I had just listened. But tonight, she asked me for advice.

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I call my Lucy the World’s Happiest Dog. Maybe you can see why.

She’s never in a bad mood. She’s always thrilled to see me. She doesn’t care what we do — as long as she gets to spend time with me. She’s loving and gentle, but above all else, she’s happy. All the time.

I haven’t been happy for a long time. The world seems to have gone mad. My life is nothing like I want it to be. I feel as though I’ve lost control over my direction. Nothing is as I want it to be.

But tonight, I am happy. Do I need a reason to feel happy?

Maybe it’s the crisp autumn weather that’s just arrived in Birmingham this weekend. Maybe it’s the feeling of peace that comes from slowly working through deeper issues. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m happy tonight. I feel the way Lucy always acts.

And in my happiness, my thoughts turn to a woman. I’m happy enough that all I want is to share my happiness with her. Even though I can’t.

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I didn’t get to sleep Friday night until the sun was coming up Saturday morning around 6:30 a.m.

I’m not quite sure what I was doing all night, but this has become a pattern for me lately. I spent some of the time reading. I watched a movie. And I spent quite awhile at this little gazebo about half a mile from my house. It’s at the center of the little downtown area of the suburb where I live. While the rest of the city is asleep, it’s a good place for me to write.

I’m back there again Saturday night, but it’s hard to be sure why I’m here. I feel the need to write, but I also feel a creeping frustration that doesn’t have a name. Part of me wants to hide and be alone, and another part of me wants to desperately reach out to someone. I feel so conflicted — like someone who is screaming like a mad man on the inside but looks perfectly calm on the outside.

I feel as though I’ve lost control over my life — and these late-night times of solitude seem to be the only times when things make any sense.

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