Jay Gatsby, the most romantic stalker of them all, used to gaze out across Long Island Sound towards East Egg and put all his hope into the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock.
Rick Blaine couldn’t help himself: it wasn’t his fault that, of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, Ilsa walked back into his.
And one is the loneliest number.
It’s also just a song. And The Great Gatsby is just a book, and Casablanca‘s just a movie. Unrequited love usually (to paraphrase Warren Zevon) ain’t that pretty at all. Sometimes it’s not even love — it’s unrequited life.
Tonight nydeborah blogged brilliantly on the subject over at Deb on the Web. She recounts how someone who was but a bit player in her life recently reached out to her — not for help, but to perpetuate an existence that long ago went away. Check it out. If you’ve ever had someone — anyone — not “get it” that it’s over, that because you’ve moved on so must they, Deb’s words will connect. And if you’re on the other side of that fence, she offers some sound advice.