Of course she wanted to marry. After all, she grew up watching mothers cook and clean and sleep and wake the next day to do the same thing all over again. Besides, she was always taught that what a woman really needs is infinite security, not dreams, and that infinite security came in the form of a sturdy well-suited man.
Still, her inclination was to daydream about her most perfect man, and have imaginary conversations with him of witty sarcasms and devilish mind games. He would fall passionately in love with her the minute he saw her, or no, better yet, the moment she parted her lips and he could sense what a snotty little intellect she had. An intellect shy and smug. He would be exciting up-close as well as from afar, unlike those other bores she dated who fooled her into thinking they were more sophisticated than they really were, and after a few disappointing conversations, realized what an ordinary embarkment it would be to marry any one of them. No, this man of which she dreamt would be about the handsomest darndest thing she'd ever seen, and they will stay up until the darkest hours of night talking of the most substantial to the most trivial things in life, from the absurdity of philosophies to the subtle differences between ice-cream and gelato. And he will be her hero. He will want with every bone in his body to preserve her tendency to be spoiled and determined because he thought it to be endearing, and they'd be, as it were, utterly and madly in love. And, before she can realize that excitement comes with a price, he will leave her in one swift and fleeting moment, without ever fully knowing how well she hid her fragility behind that wall of verbose vocabulary of her's. For in that fleeting moment, stars will fall from the sky and babies die and the only thing left of her will be the dreadfulness of having to face her youth.
By then, she will have chosen not to marry. Because if she couldn't eat both ice-cream and gelato, she would rather eat nothing at all.
