My Heart is a Cold Hard Stone

Daniel thinks I should stop blogging about heartbreak. He doesn't want to sound like an asshole, he knows I'm going through something of an upheaval, but I'm not doing myself any favours by writing about it.

"Oh," I say, and we sit down on a bench on Mississippi Avenue. It's beautiful here at the moment: the sun is shining and the cherry trees drop blossom all over the place. It's the kind of time of year that would make your heart sing with joy, if you were happy. In fact, if you were here right now, and if you were happy, you might pick this exact moment to write one of those texts to your other half that just say: "I love you!" — just because you want them to know.

"Don't get me wrong," Daniel goes on. "I've written my share of angst in the past. It's just, maybe, you know…"

Yes, I do know. I'm suspicious of Daniel. I suspect he wants to kiss me. He'd already reached for my hand, some time ago, and I'd jumped back and said, uh, I'm sorry, but I'm not ready for this, I'm going through a process here, can we just be friends?

Daniel had lied and said yes, and one night I went along to his show and watched his band play songs about, yes, you guessed it: heartbreak. Why is it okay for musicians to go on and on about their failed romance, but not for me? I wish I were a country music star. I'd write sad songs about walking away from love and then I'd go and sit out on the porch and play them again and again, day after day after day. Blogging is the worst type of writing because once it's out there you can never play it again. You can't take your pain on tour and every night have a different crowd sing along. You just have to pick yourself up and find new content and try not to censor yourself and carry on.

Fiona and I sometimes play guitar together in the evenings. She tries to teach me to sing and play at the same time, but I keep losing my rhythm and the notes go all over the place. Fiona has natural musical ability and I have none: I feel the same way about music as some people feel about drawing stickmen. But Fiona also has great patience and eventually, together, we play Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton and Willie Nelson and anyone else who ever sat out on their porch in the name of love — and love long gone.

Daniel sighs. I think he's losing patience. But I'm not interested in placating him. I'm finding it difficult to feel anything for the opposite sex right now other than indifference. My heart is a cold hard stone.

"My heart is a cold hard stone," I explain to him. "I already told you I'm going through a process. Don't think you can speed it up just so we can kiss."

"Jesus, Annie," says Daniel, getting up off the bench and going off me. "I'm not trying to kiss you, I'm trying to help you."

"Oh," I say, again.

Yeah, well. I get up, too, and we walk together in silence, down to the end of Mississippi. We pass the street cafés and the food carts and the people sitting around with beers listening to reggae. If you catch anyone's eye in this town they smile at you and you smile back: that's the rule. It seems like spring is turning into summer despite everything, and sometimes I can feel myself turning with it, too. But it just takes time to accept certain things, doesn't it? Life goes on; seasons change; people come and go.

If you love someone, and you're thinking of them, now might be a good time to let them know.