My three lovers are dead now, and I’m told I should stop at that, and that if I don’t I will be watched, as if the pain of having lost them, one after another, is not enough. Lance and I were married for five years. On the morning of his death I cooked breakfast for him. Nothing unusual in that. At work, three hours later, he took a turn. The doctors did what they could. It was not enough.
Frank went in his sleep. Much more peaceful. But to wake next to him—it is something I will never forget.
Vitas was slow. I watched him go downhill for months. No sign at all of a cause. It was as if his body was unwinding.
That should be enough, they say.
But I don’t think I should stop. I should find someone who trusts me. Someone who will not judge me.
And you seem so honest. So willing. When I opened up to you about my tragedy you did not shy away as others have. I have never sought to hide my past. I will not hide it from you now. I will devote myself to you.
small stories about love 