We love people the way we want to be loved. Or, so I believe.

A friend at work, prompted shortly after lunch, "Why are you this patient with him? Do you like him that much?" I was distracted by the smell on my nails; a lot of pickle and a lot of oil meant that my pastel pink manicure was reeking of Gongura Leaves and Mustard Oil. I had finished explaining a long fable on my back after a rather early lunch—why I ended up making a steep purchase earlier today and how I needed to be a knight in shining armour for a fintech situation in my personal life, as a "woman in STEM". I don't end up doing either anymore—explaining myself to people and oversharing. I shed parts of me like a snake changes skin every season and that is the only reason why I state this. I find it odd to articulate any part of my personal life to anyone, even to those closest to me. Naturally, that has extended to this page and by default logic, people in my life.

I used to think so too. And maybe, the egg in my basket was rotten so I can't say this is a shared experience, but I felt a lot of me was eliminated, lost, and washed out in doing that. And maybe, that's not how this is supposed to be. If Goldilocks found the first bed too soft, then she's now finding this bed too hard, but that's not such a bad thing for her spine or back overall. I am still using my brain to fend for myself and look out for myself and if I have to include another person intermittently in that, why not? 

To be honest, I don't think it's the man or his potential, it's all me. It's always been me, my sparkle, my love and my love that's made others shine bright. Without that, he's just another fish, another egg, another brick. It's the bricklayer who decides the pecking order and she has to be patient with her art.