"I've realised something. You're wrong."
They were out for coffee again. It was Saturday; the work had waned just a little, Phyllis' insuppressible need for caffeine hadn't. They had gone for a walk a little way away from his flat and found a coffee shop. When she spoke, he looked up from the copy of The Guardian he had in front of him.
"That's not a surprise," he replied, "About anything in particular?"
She smiled a little, but she seemed serious in spite of it. She didn't really want to joke around, she was trying to say something.
"You're wrong about the definition of love. You have to be."
Now he was serious too, and very averse to the notion of joking around. For a moment he almost couldn't process how to confront such a direct and all-encompassing criticism.
"About the whole thing?" he asked her, "Or just a part of it?"
"I don't know," she replied, her voice cautious, as if she was worried about startling or offending him, "But I do know that you're wrong when you say that love is something people construct entirely, that they make it up for themselves and decide what it is for themselves. Because," she told him softly, her voice seemed to tremble just a little, "When I'm with you, I'm not in control of my emotions like that. I can't decide what I feel for you, I can't draw my emotions in like that and define them, I just feel-… so much. I'm not in control, it's like they're sweeping over me; it's not internal, it comes from the outside and knocks me over," her eyes focused on his face, coming out of the thoughtful middle distance, "What are you looking at me like that for? What are you thinking?" she asked him.
"Intellectually, or emotionally?"
"Both."
"Well," he told her with a smile, "Intellectually I'd say that you're beginning to sound suspiciously like you're forming you're own definition of love-…"
"I'm not," she replied, "Don't twist what I'm saying like that," she told him, then smiling at him in spite of herself, "Bastard. What about emotionally?"
"Emotionally, I love you, Phyllis Baxter."
Her eyelids fluttered for a second, and then her smile settled on her face.
"I love you too," she replied.
They were both silent for a moment. He tried to keep calm, though he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. She was still smiling.
"Do you not think it's ridiculous," she asked him, "I'm in love with you and because of the way I feel when I'm with you I start to question the idea that first started to make me love you?"
"Yes," he told her, "I think that sounds ridiculous. And a bit dangerous, from where I'm sitting."
She grinned a little, realising what he was saying.
"Don't worry," she told him, "You're pretty safe, from where I'm sitting. I've told you, I'm not in control, there's no way I'm going to reason myself out of this one."
"Alright," he replied, smiling at her humour, reaching across the table for her hands, "That's good."
He stroked his thumb over hers, raised one of her hands to his lips and kiss on her knuckles.
"I love you," he told her, very seriously, looking into her eyes, meaning in with every inch of his body and mind.
She slipped her hand out of his, caressing his cheek.
"I love you too," she told him.
They were quiet for another moment.
"Do you want to go home?" he asked her.
She met his eyes, knew what he meant.
"Yes," she replied, "I do."
end.
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