Dr. Catherine is a beautiful woman, but nevertheless I am holding her at arm’s length. In her e-mailed portrait she resembles the actress Marlene Dietrich. There is a haunting poignancy in her eyes. Her lips are strikingly sensual, more Italian than French.
If this encounter had taken place a year ago I'd be in a frenzy right now, my mind racing a thousand miles an hour, thinking of the romantic possibilities. But as it is I'm wary, cautious. I’m working hard to avoid lapsing into my old behavior—that of too quickly being overtaken by obsession. I’m determined to change!
The major reason for my wariness is that I am involved with someone else, and I find it impossible to lie to one, or to the other, or to both. Women can tell when I’m lying; they can see it on my face.
But then wait. The affair with the other one isn’t likely to develop into anything serious, what with her lurking estranged husband and three young children. That is clear. So therefore I have every right in the world to explore possibilities with a woman who is...well, available.
Actually the problem is that I'm a fucking lunatic.
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