In A Lonely Place

         I could never forget the first time she told me she loved me. The words came sudden and breathy and unexpected to both of us. It was if her heart had forced them from within before her mind could intervene. She pressed her forehead to mine for just a moment, and I sensed the relief of someone struggling with a burden that had been suddenly lifted. No more decisions to make, nothing to second-guess. She loved me.
         I stared intently into her face. The soft, delicate features framed by her dark hair. I could not recall her ever looking at me that way before and for a moment I thought she might cry. Her eyelashes fluttered and she lowered her gaze for just a second, smile beaming all the while, and that's when I caught it. A subtle but unmistakable hint of sadness. So delicate, I am convinced I only saw it with my soul and not my eyes. It was then I knew she would hurt me, and I knew she knew she would hurt me, and it made her sad. And for some reason I can't explain, that realization made me love her even more. I never wanted to see her sad again. I wanted to take care of her, to protect her, to cater to her. In that brief moment between two deeply flawed human beings, my sole purpose for existing became her happiness.