Love in all its travesties riled her to breaking point; cursed with more than average looks, and that allure which chaos brings, she chose to mock at ordered lives, and “Try and spice things up a bit.” She swept through events with spendthrift haste, guzzling at experience; “Bills are not my thing” she said, ” But you can pay them if you wish.”
She understood stability, and the fantasies of sober men, teasing them with coquettish skill and tugged their hearts with reckless angst: eased them from their marriage beds, then laughed at their stupidity.
Your attention was all she sought but only as a passing whim. “Loyalty is the gift of fools” her glib remark to some poor man, finessed by her perceptive guile into paying for a holiday, “Unaccompanied if you please. Talent needs its solitude” and so the poor chump slid away, muttering about “The greater good,” only to find, when she returned that some new guy with polished teeth, who had the keys to Hollywood, was taking her beyond his reach, but kindly in her awkward way, she did not leave without a thought, but sent back a signed photograph, “Taken by a man of note.”
You may love her if you wish, but do not make a point of it. Already bored in infancy, she sought for nothing you could give. Diversion was her sanctuary and leaving you her one true gift.