Читать книгу Alone: A Love Story - Michelle Parise - Страница 23

I grew up thinking love was torture. Love was passion, love was drama. I watched my parents fight in spectacular, telenovela fashion. I saw my aunt and uncle throw plates and punches while my little cousins and I hid under the kitchen table.

These couples loved each other fiercely. I’d sit at the top of the basement stairs, long after I should have been asleep, watching them dance close and call each other darling. A spark in their eye, an affectionate pinch of a bum, a laugh like a teenage girl.

So that’s what love’s always been to me: wild and sweeping. Changing from intense anger to soft care at any moment. Of course, my parents and most of my aunts and uncles all got divorced eventually, but by then it was too late, I’d sponged it all up. It’s part of my very blood. Love is infuriating but worth every fight.

Which brings me here, to a place where love is only real if it can rage like a bonfire and also comfort like a fireplace. It’s both, at once, the pain and the warmth.

It’s why my heart is always cranked to maximum.