He's a very definite person; even in his uncertainty, he is matter of fact. Defined. Settled. Distinct. He never gets mixed up with himself; I am forever tangled. He says it makes me weak; I said he was going to hell.
He said that hell was a three-ring circus, in so many words. He would, I imagine, disapprove of my colorful way of putting it. Such a definite person has more definite ways to put things. Extended metaphors lead to lengthy explanations. They lead to questions. He doesn't like being questioned.
The first ring is for people who worked hard. I didn't ask (he doesn't like being questioned), but I imagine this was his definite way of telling me that there was definitely no heaven. It was obvious that this was his circus sideshow of choice. That anything else was unacceptable. This was his ultimate; but he wouldn't like that word. It leads to questions.
The second ring is for people who hadn't worked. I construed this to be his purgatory. These people could be 'dealt with'. They were 'tolerated'. Handled, at best. He was definite in his apathy. Hard working people didn't waste time pitying those who weren't like them. Hate is such an abstract word.
The third ring, he tells me, is for cheaters. I had almost been definitely sure that this was for me. I would've bet money on it, and I should've known that the very fact that I was gambling at all meant that I was wrong as I ever had been, but I didn't. So in my head, I wagered; being around him made me feel sure. He almost made me feel definite.
Almost.
"Am I a hard worker, a non-worker, or a cheater?"
He hated being questioned. I shut my eyes. I am most definitely a masochist.
"You're a dreamer."
I am most definitely in love with him.
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