It is common for men, after romantic rejections, to withdraw all praise they had previously bestowed on the former objects of their affection and downplay the beauty of what they lost. This usually takes the form of affirmation, ostensibly to their friends, but really to themselves, that “she wasn’t that good-looking anyways.” I am compelled, whenever I hear this from a friend, to remind him of his previous opinions on the subject, of the many months he spent swearing that she was the most beautiful girl in the world — though I never do, lest I add to his suffering. The extent of these delusions tends to correlate with the intensity of the original passion: the sweeter his early praises, the more bitter his later criticisms. An extreme example of this phenomenon can be observed in a story related to me by one of my correspondents, which I will now share with the reader.

Sir,

I once had a friend who worshipped a girl in our class, whom I will call Ophelia. His devotion began all the way back in kindergarten. She was the prettiest thing he had ever seen, and for a while he marveled over her in absolute secrecy. His feeling must have been too intense to bear by himself, for he decided to share it with me. I remember being surprised when my typically quiet friend whispered to me out of nowhere that he had a secret, which, to hear, I must vow to keep. I swore by my own life. After taking a precautionary glance around, he told me that he loved Ophelia.

The revelation puzzled me. I had heard similar confessions from other friends, in much lighter veins. I thought he was testing me, seeing how I handled the dupe before giving me the real thing. But he had told me the real thing, and it did indeed matter to him even if it didn’t to me. In due time his affection became an open secret. He felt no need to suppress any of his feelings. He would marvel over her beauty to anyone willing to listen. Most of the time that was us, his friends. We heard of Ophelia in the halls and on the playground, on the bus and at sleepovers. He never tired of the topic.

Particularly annoying was his unwillingness to speak of any other girl. He considered it a form of infidelity to praise any beauty but Ophelia’s. When, in middle school, girls became a frequent topic of conversation at our lunch table, he abstained in stony silence; or, if he did join in, it was to belittle some girl whom all of us had been praising, on the grounds that “she was nothing compared to Ophelia.”

Out of his one love he made conversation for years. Every change in hairstyle, article of clothing, or after-school activity warranted thorough deliberation, and then, inevitably, praise. In his eyes she was constantly outdoing herself, compounding her already infinite beauty.

Through all of this he never spoke to her—that is, said anything but “hello” as he shuffled past. The more perfect she became in his imagination, the scarier it was to court her; and the more important she became to him, the more he could not bear to lose her. A rejection would have sapped the source of his health. We would urge him to brave a conversation, to use the social skills that he had in every other setting—to no avail. He could hold a conversation with anyone except her. He could talk to mortals; he trembled before goddesses.

In high school he was forced to act. In middle school he had the privilege of inaction because his eventual marriage to Ophelia was so widely accepted among the other boys that none of them, for fear of messing with fate, would have attempted her. But these dynamics only survive in small towns. We fed into a big high school, where most of the boys knew nothing of my friend nor his love. They saw Ophelia for what she was. For the first time she had suitors, and my friend panicked. His idleness now seemed stupid. He realized that he could no longer savor his dream without acting on it, or someone else would. Released from his daze, he pursued her while he could.

She received him so well that he wondered why he had waited so long. For the great bulk of his youth, he had deprived himself of what he was now able to enjoy. She had, it turned out, always been fond of him, though she had begun to worry, as the years went by, if he really did love her, as everyone said. She had taken his shyness for indifference, his supposed adoration for rumors. Now she grasped that he returned her fondness and then some. To us, his friends, their union was bittersweet. We knew it was best for him but also wondered if we would ever see him again.

We did not understand then that no love, however strong its foundation, is guaranteed to last. They were teenagers, unequipped as of yet with the discipline required to balance the passion of such a hot affair. Like most relationships between kids of that age, theirs ended for silly reasons, none of which I can now recall. The important thing about their dissolution was that she imposed it.

For a few days we did not see our friend. Then he showed up at our lunch table as though nothing had happened. We stared at him as he casually bit into his sandwich. Finally, I broke in:

“Sorry about Ophelia.”

My friend looked up, confused.

“Ophelia?”

“Your girlfriend.”

“Oh her. Don’t worry about it. I’ve been over her for a while.” We all looked around at one another.

“So you’re handling it alright?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t even thinking of her until you brought her up.”

“Well, regardless, I’m sorry she ended things.”

“Don’t worry about it. She wasn’t that pretty anyways.”

I remain, sir,
Your most humble servant,
Spenser Spectator