A. and I once had one of the silliest fights over Egyptian cotton bed spreads. We sat at the opposite sides of the room, sulking. I read a book, stealing glances. He had his back to me, scribbling furiously. At almost thirty years old, he is such a boy, and I fought the urge to smile as I watch him curl his lip while thinking and being grumpy. After an hour, I gave up; I never get angry for very long, and I think he knows this. But we were having so much fun being in a fight, so I wouldn’t lose now, would I?
I went outside to look at clouds and to curb my urge to laugh out loud. When I came back I found this poem stabbed to a pillow (yes, he can be dramatic, he’s half-French), and I couldn’t help it, I laughed until I was crying:
I Gave My Heart To A Woman
William Ernest Henley
I gave my heart to a woman –
I gave it to her, branch and root.
She bruised, she wrung, she tortured,
She cast it under foot.
Under her feet she cast it,
She trampled it where it fell,
She broke it all to pieces,
And each was a clot of hell.
There in the rain and the sunshine
They lay and smouldered long;
And each, when again she viewed them,
Had turned to a living song.
What else is a woman to do?