No Better Understood Than Gravity

What’s on my mind! I’m obsessed with the love my male protagonist feels for an elusive girl he knew in grade school, now suddenly running across her nineteen years later, now disturbingly slippery.

Love, but not the love synonymous with sex, not the one pretended for money, not the one where she “interviewed well,” but love where there’s no competitive impetus, no second-handedness or earthliness at all. Love, in spite of rust and rootlessness. Love just because that is what is inescapably, frighteningly felt. Love where there’s crime and baggage and mystic islets of doubt and disappointment, but it – the love – is still tactilely there. Love, I tell you. Love that’s powerfully right behind and pulling my protagonist toward her wherever he goes – no better understood than gravity. And he knows he’s run out of time to try to reach escape velocity, but he’d throw away every remaining minute of his life to just once more, feel the heat that touched him when he was twelve.