I met a man with a broken heart. His eyes, if you looked closely, were sad. He dropped the veil as I looked at him, my own tears threatening to erupt. I realized there are many people walking around wounded. I was not the only one.
His dance moves hid the pain etched within him. As much as he later told me his heartbreak was over and done with, you could still see the scabs of where this wound had festered. His smile was not as wide as it could be, his face not as devoid of emotion as he thought.
He held my hand in his, stroking his thumb over mine in a mindless but repetitive motion that seemed to say it would all be okay. For anyone who knows me, a show of tenderness is my Achilles’ heel; I felt the tears well up, tiptoe to the edge of my eyes and, as much as I internally threatened them, fall over and trip over themselves getting to my chin. I looked down, looked up in vain. No amount of blinking could stop them from their southbound journey. He looked at me and I saw my pain reflected in his eyes. I stopped then. I wiped, dabbed and cleaned up my tears.
I met a man with a broken heart and he reminded me that broken hearts don’t kill you. You survive somehow and, even at a minimum of a year later, as much as the sadness wells up, the pain will eventually dull.
I wish I believed him. He still looked wounded to me. But what do I know?