The Love Not Meant For Her

What do you do when you fall in love with someone meant for a different life?

Aryana Rose told a story at The Moth’s Houston StorySLAM in 2015, but I just came across it when a friend shared The Moth’s Instagram Reel of her performance last week.

My world stopped.

By the end of it I found myself just lying in my bed, crying.

I watched it two more times, and cried two more times.

This is one of the most beautiful love stories I have ever heard.

This is what it means to be more soul than human.

I can’t stop thinking about this.

Below, the video, and below that, my transcription of it. I just wanted to type the words out to see what typing them felt like, then felt I should share with you.

Enjoy…

I was 45 and he was 29.

We met in a French medieval village called Bruniquel.

And after four days of debate I decided to go out with him.

I couldn’t resist him.

He was the most extraordinary partner I have ever had.

He was a painter and a sculptor.

He loved Roman architecture.

He was building his own house with a patio and a fountain in the middle with columns.

He loved nature.

He taught me the names and the properties of trees and plants and flowers.

He was an outstanding musician.

He had created his own style of music that was flamenco music and Irish music put together, and when he played that music, it had delicious, indecent effects on me.

Everything about him was exceptional.

I couldn’t believe that a man of his age and beauty and talent could be free and even more, be interested in a woman of my age.

As time went by, he was more and more exceptional.

I couldn’t understand, really, what was happening.

We traveled a lot.

We went to a lot of festivals, where he performed with this group called “Kill the Dog.”

He used to play Irish music.

We used to go up and climb in these old churches.

He used to have this keyring with old keys that would go into any church.

And I’d open, and we’d sneak inside, and look at the paintings, and I always wanted to make love in there.

So he started calling me “puerquito.”

That means “little pig” in Spanish, because he said that I was defiling all of the holy places in France.

But he never said no, so I called him “puerquito” too.

There is one thing that was very peculiar about him, and that is that when he looked at children, his eyes would just beam and glow.

And one day it suddenly dawned on me and I said, “Jean Michel, do you want to have children?”

And he said, “Yes, of course!”

I could’ve plugged him into the sun.

He just beamed.

And at that moment, I just said, “Oh my God, oh my God.”

My heart just stopped.

Have you ever seen Iron Man when he puts on his suit?

“Shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk.”

That was my heart.

I just barricaded my heart.

My heart stopped.

I knew it was the end.

At that moment, I knew it was the end.

You see, I had two children of my own.

They were already grown up.

I loved my freedom and I loved my life.

And for nothing in the world was I going to deprive that human being from living that experience of having children.

I went home and I cried all night long.

And the next day I left him.

But it wasn’t over.

For three and a half years, Jean Michel and I would struggle to go our separate ways.

We would struggle to talk sense into ourselves.

And in his folly, he was ready to give up his dream, and I was ready to give him kids.

But we both knew that it just wasn’t possible.

We could not do this.

We shouldn’t do this.

We should not sacrifice our lives in such a way.

So I began bringing girlfriends to our outings in hopes that he would look at them.

But he would never look at them.

I really didn’t know what to do.

We couldn’t stay away from one another.

We’d cry, and just didn’t know what to do.

Our friends didn’t understand us.

Our families, even less.

And time was ticking.

I was almost 50.

And then one day, I was sitting in a terrace in Toulouse, drinking, and suddenly, she walked by.

It was magical.

Unreasonable.

It was powerful.

I could feel her essence.

She had red hair.

She was wearing a velour hat.

It was a Victorian hat.

It was a little bit crushed soft.

She was the most beautiful thing walking on a pair of legs.

I walked up to her and started a conversation with her.

She was an author for children’s books.

For four weeks, I entertained a unique relationship with her, until I invited her to come see and meet my friend, Jean Michel.

When they crossed, when their eyes met, and I saw his smile, I knew that it was good.

It was good.

It was good.

I had arranged for a girlfriend to call me and tell me there was an emergency so that I could leave.

He knew.

He knew.

And I hugged him.

He hugged me.

He wouldn’t let me go.

He said to me, “Don’t leave me.”

But I just said, “Just be free. Make your dreams come true. Even without me. Just be free.”

So I turned around, to never return.

I walked away.

They called me the next day.

They called me dozens of times.

I changed my phone.

I moved away.

And I didn’t see him for four years until one day I took the phone and I picked up the phone and I called him and told him I was coming.

He was exposing in a nearby village.

And as I walked into the gallery, I saw the four years had gone by, and this beautiful little red head came running out, with curly hair.

And she ran towards me as if she had known me all her life, with her beautiful green eyes.

And she said to me, in French, she said, “C’est toi la fee? C’est toi la fee?”

That means, “Are you the fairy?””