Desperate times see us find more in less. A lack of alternatives makes a boring book or bad tv seem much more interesting; a bland dish is adequately seasoned by gnawing hunger. In this way, loneliness can inspire us to compromise our standards for the people we let into our lives.

It should be reassuring that there are so many people in the world. With such a large pool of options available to us, how can any person fail to find another to love and be loved by? Yet, though we may find endless chances for love in those we meet and could meet, each of those individuals comprises an equally infinite number of their own facets — all opportunities for conflict as well as compatibility. Knowing this, the likelihood of finding someone who matches you on the important levels, seems likely to keep matching you as time passes, and feels the same way about the pairing, seems hopelessly impossible.

And so, people settle. They alter the qualities they'd objectively value in a prospective partner (and sometimes themselves), paring them down so those wants can coexist with a person they (subjectively) want. A living, breathing, loving body trumps a cold, theoretical ideal. Yet there's risk in this, the risk that one chooses wrongly, forsaking the happiness that could have come if only you'd waited a little longer or tried a little harder.

Which do you say?

• "I was lucky to find someone good enough."
• "I am so, so glad I waited for you."

My choices have all been justified because they brought me here, to your side. I am so, so glad I waited.

The only explanation I can suggest is that for Franz, love was not an extension of public life but its antithesis. It meant a longing to put himself at the mercy of his partner. He who gives himself up like a prisoner of war must give up his weapons as well. And deprived in advance of defense against a possible blow, he cannot help wondering when the blow will fall. That is why I can say that for Franz, love meant the constant expectation of a blow.

Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

I didn't want to see you today. I wanted to take cover instead. I wanted to find respite from the wounds you rip in me while exposing the foundations of my soul, because you leave me much too painfully open. I'm worried my answer to some innocent outside query will reveal too much. I'm worried someone else will enter me through the gate you've used and left broken. You are here, and I worry because you prevent me from healing.

In a world free from your constant assaults, I could think of protecting myself again. I could start mending my defenses, begin easing my heart out of your iron grasp. Instead, you are here, and I'm paralyzed waiting for your next method of humiliation. How will you hurt me today?, I wonder. What else will you find to break? How else can I be stripped and left open?

I am not confident. I am not beautiful. I have taken easier, less useful paths and made other bad decisions. I am not loved. I am weak. I live a life that shames me sometimes. I fail.

I have always been a harsh self-critic, but only my own opinion mattered. Only I was qualified to pass judgment; only I had enough information to pass judgment because only I sufficiently understood my own thoughts.

Now you have this information too, because you saw it and recognized it for what it was. I got too used to hiding in the open, masking my depths in obscurity and neuroses, talking to people who didn't really listen. But you realized I was saying something, you forced me to slow down, you paid attention. You heard.

You ask the compromising questions and force my answers. You study me in every embarrassing position you imagine, using a magnifying glass so you don't miss a single flaw. You rob me of composure, poise, other illusions. And I don't understand why.

Are you slowing down to watch a train wreck? Satisfying a playful curiosity? Or is it just a matter of male pride to conquer and subjugate as thoroughly as possible whenever the opportunity presents itself? Maybe I'm just one more notch on your belt, another trophy lying shattered as a testament to your victory. Is that what I am to you? Maybe it doesn't matter. Perhaps the raw indignity is enough.

My dearest love, how will you hurt me today? In your presence I can't help but ache with the question — it's just one more wound you've opened in me. Is it any wonder I hoped you wouldn't come?