Anne Tuckington had been single for so long that she had despaired of ever finding a match that would be her equal in overthinking and brooding, and had resigned herself to merely hope that perhaps some day she could find a place to put her cold feet at night, for it is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of cold extremities must be in need of a partner.
And thus she did merrily go far and around the region, visiting L-- for the baths and K-- for the cheeses and V-- for the condescending attitude and confusion that only the birthplace of psychotherapy could have.
And yet it was in her own small town of B-- that the most recent occurrence drove our heroine to put fingers to keys and type the story of a time when she found herself almost smitten with a man whose affections were frankly engaged elsewhere, and she found herself flirting outrageously largely on the basis of his upper body strength, which was prodigious. Imagine him lifting heavy things, she sighed to herself, her breath heavy with longing.
One evening, they perambulated the small hall to which they had retreated, having gone there to escape the bitter outdoor chill, not quite arm in (strong!) arm but very close, and he touched her cheek with the back of his warm hand, and she nearly swooned, whereupon he suggested that they might perhaps seat themselves in the smoking room for a time, as he had something he needed to say.
It bears mentioning at this point that our young heroine, while constantly desirous of declarations of affection, has received them so rarely in her life that she has been known to fall in love upon hearing of someone's love for her, and she is wiser now but still she felt her cheeks flush with anticipation. Perhaps his affections were not as engaged elsewhere as she had thought; perhaps there was yet hope. A confession of ardent admiration, maybe, if not love. With shaking fingers she lit a cigarette for something to do, averting her eyes from his steady gaze, trying to figure out how to inhale the smoke and hold her breath at the same time, waiting.
Finally it spilled forth, this story he needed to convey to her. What was the story? I sense that you, too, gentle reader, are on the edge of your seat. I shall therefore proceed apace: dear reader, it was quite possibly the most boring story ever told. It had nothing to do with an unburdening of the heart, no nothing to do with feelings at all, not even feelings of a baser, animal nature. Once before on a tram our lady Anne had overheard a man tell of an encounter in a restaurant, the tale took longer than the encounter, and she thought that that, surely, was the most boring story ever, but this story surpassed it in all aspects except that at least the teller was better looking.
But there she sat, no words of passion were his, nor even of mild interest, and as he spoke she realized that with every word she found him less desirable, until finally at the end of 20 minutes she no longer desired him at all. Well maybe still his arms a little. But otherwise, the small but persistent flame she had cupped in her heart was fully extinguished, blown out not by the winds of reality but the undeniable puff of boredom. And how did this feel? Was it sad? Not at all: it was the kindest, most incredibly wonderful thing that could have happened. So ended her affection; now she was free again. The cold feet are still a problem, but dying of cold feet is a fate much, much less awful than dying of boredom.