The other night, a man told me about Marianne Dashwood.
I knew who she was,
but I let him tell me about her, anyway.
Marianne Dashwood. That woman, he said, is ravishing. Her passion and spontaneity... it thrills me.
I let him continue on about her for a while, let him rave of her beauty. How brave, passionate, and lovely she must've been and What a pill! he'd say. He reminded me of her flaws, too: the way she treated strangers with contempt, Lady Middleton with coldness. Though, he said, she loves passionately. The people she chooses to, she loves without fences or walls and I find that enchanting.
Almost reverently, he spoke of Marianne Dashwood, carried on about her for several minutes, all the while, not knowing I've compared myself to her all these years.
It made me remember the other night at his apartment, when he left the room.
One of his friends remarked on the way he often speaks of me.
(P.S. There's something ridiculously sexy about a man who reads Jane Austen.)