The neutral third party

Was he Swiss? Its too late to ask. Its been too late to ask.

Its not fulfilling, all this. All this kissing. Its wearing on me. I've seen better days. Its fun at the moment. Then. I come home. I sit at my computer. I write. I rant.

I let him hold my hand and kissed him and hoped, hoped hoped hoped, that someone saw us and thought we were in love.

But truthfully, I couldn't wait to get home and write. I would rather write. Rant. (You say potato, I say ...write.) I didn't for a second really want to hold his hand. I wanted the illusion.

I feel bad for the poor man whose hand I actually want to hold (whenever we may meet). I may never let go.