“We shall have our little day.” . . . Dororthy Parker’s opening line.
She was brilliantly/bluntly poeting the inhale and exhale of romantic relationships and I can relate. All of mine, thus far, too, have fallen to an imbalance of desire.
However the sentiment applies to most things. A spark and a fizzle; a best bite, then more of the same. “Our little day” can be a life lived. Or the best coffee drank on a small sun-dappled patio when everything seems right in the world . . . no future cup will satisfy/thrill/delight in quite the same way.
I hope to someday find someone or something that somehow extends the day into a week or longer. I won’t stop searching but I don’t expect to find.
Occasional moments of glee—friendships, lovers, pets, possessions, houseplants, ideologies—all come and go and, if I pay attention, will be worth the trip.