Her espresso was long finished, leaving a hardened stain at the cup’s bottom. Yet she lingered in the café, glancing occasionally at her phone.  

Thoughts of him came.  At the beginning it wasn’t lust or love, but in-between; a third lance of longing which pierced her heart – that of limerence.

Cloaked as infatuation, limerence is a desire to be loved by the object of our affection – a hope for our passion’s reflection.¹  The woman realized that she had confused limerence with love for most of her life.  And therein perhaps, lay the reason why she had been unlucky.  

She thought of a secret he (of whom she was thinking) shared with her; a wisdom unrevealed when they were together, which came to her after the breakup.  It was entirely possible that the lover who brought the insight knew nothing of it himself.

“How do I let go of you, Jaime?  In my dreams I always come back to those carefree years before it all went wrong.”

Her eyes darted to the window and then to the clock on the wall.  The barista surmised from these furtive glances that she was waiting for someone, probably a date.  But the date happened years ago.  

It was not Amoury’s last boyfriend or even the one before.  The paramour for whom she yearned was three lovers back.  She remembered a line from a book – “Who we are, and who we become depends, in part, on whom we love.” ²  

In their last goodbye Amoury saw her reflection through Jaime’s eyes, and found the impression wanting.  So she sought a better rendering. In fits and spurts she did the work, and practiced her new version on two subsequent partners, until the changes mostly stuck.  

The couple at the next booth got up and left.  The lunch crowd was thinning now, the hum of conversation and clinking of china mostly gone.  Amoury spoke under her breath to the empty chair across the table, imagining Jaime sitting there.  

“We do not truly change for someone else.  But we will change for ourselves, perhaps from the inspiration of another after they have gone.  Yet shadows of our former lovers remain in the outline of our new selves – an expression of all those we have loved before.”

Now years later, she was finally worthy of herself.  And the partner who was the object of her limerence, lust, and finally love – who by his leaving, caused the metamorphosis – was not even aware of what he wrought by his absence.  

Here at the café where they first met, Amoury lifted the empty cup in a toast.  She allowed the nostalgia to flood her mind and the bittersweet pangs of an old infatuation returned.

The barista watched her leave.  At first he thought her date was truant.  But he saw no disappointment in her features.  Instead he saw a softness – a satisfaction perhaps.

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Amoury stepped out of the café and turned up the street toward Sion’s twin castles.  Her feet knew the route by habit, but today she noticed faded directional signposts showing the way.   They reminded her of something she once read – that the universe gives us omens to keep us on our path.  If we ignore these portents, we drift off course.  

Amoury tried to remember where their love first went astray and if she had missed some hint.  But it was so long ago.

Turning a corner, the two castles came into view on their adjacent hills.  They reminded her of two lovers – separate but mutually supporting.  Amoury in one, and Jaime in the other.  Close but independent, the relationship worked when each made an effort.  

But the two of them got lazy.  They stopped tending the lane between them.  Grass grew tall along the connecting path until it was overgrown.  Maybe the signposts were covered too, by weeds of indifference and neglect.  In a maze of other priorities, the two lovers lost their way and stopped visiting each other’s bastions.  

The climb to Château de Tourbillon left her breathless as she passed through its ramparts to reach a verdant area behind the stone walls.  She sat on a rock.  It was here that they first kissed.

To love romantically is to be vulnerable; to give one’s heart to another and trust them to keep it in their care. In the end she hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable enough – to give Jaime the power to hurt.  That version of Amoury was sure that once he really knew her, she would be unlovable.  Afraid he would leave after he saw her true colors, she kept one foot out the door.

Jaime too, was not entirely transparent.  He was in love with a version of her which didn’t exist – a girl he wanted, not the girl she was.

Amoury saw the signs at last, unavoidably.  She saw them but felt powerless to intervene.  The forebodings said their love was unraveling.  Gentleness, patience, and then respect left their home.  Like sprites jumping out of Pandora’s jar, near the end only one behavior was left – the lonely habit of a broken relationship.  

Little irritations accumulated and their iracundity grew more intense.  Amoury let go gradually and then all at once.  Feeling her leaving, Jaime acted unloving in one final crescendo, wanting to be the first to capitulate.  And then it was over.

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Amoury stood up and continued her walk.  Leaving the first castle, her feet mechanically followed the trail to its twin on the adjacent hill – Basilique de Valère.  The way led down to a shared parking lot, and then back up to the basilica in its pocket fortress.  

Once again today her eyes saw a directional placard which had gone unnoticed before.  The paint of its letters and arrow were fading from seasons of weathering.  How strange that she had walked this path so many times, yet never noticed the washed-out guidepost.

Reaching the old citadel with its church, she passed through outer ramparts and a courtyard, continuing to an overlook.  Here on unassuming ground, they finally broke their promises all those years ago.  Her mind convinced her heart that she would be fine without him.  And just as Proust predicted, once gone his absence stoked a fire in her heart that her mind had assured her was extinguished.

Amoury glanced out onto the valley, where shadows were growing long in the waning day.  She thought of a poem.  In it two girls find the secret of life in a line of poetry.  The author of the poem hears of this, and pens a second verse to celebrate their discovery – not knowing herself either the line or the meaning within it. 

“… No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,

the line, the name of
the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can’t find,

and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that

a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines

in other
Happenings…” ³

The revelation came to Amoury, not in a line of poetry but in the presence and absence of an imperfect man.  She knew now to enjoy each day of love, to find it constantly in new ways.  And yes, she would tend the bond and not take her next lover for granted.

Amoury thanked Jaime silently, for sharing the secret with her. She will forget it, just like the two girls – but perhaps the signs will remind her if she only looks for them.

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© 2022-2025 by Dean Jen

¹ Dorothy Tennov, “Love and Limerence:  The Experience of Being in Love,” 1999, Lanham Scarborough House, New York.

² Lewis, Amini, Lannon, “A General Theory of Love,” 2000, Random House, New York.

³ Denise Levertov, The Secret, “O Taste and See: New Poems,” 1964 New Directions, New York.

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