This two-minds-at-once thing was terrible, Ida decided. Why did poets pine for love so much? It seemed like the sort of thing that dropped out of thin air rather than something one can seek and find, which was terribly inconvenient at a time like this. Poets made it sound lovely, when Cupid’s arrow struck. The air is supposed to smell sweeter, colors should look more vivid, one’s heart is supposed to flutter in air. They made love sound like the holy grail, something worth seeking. But for all her company’s affability, for all the good candies and gingerbreads and friends they could meet, for all the experiences to be had now that she was in love… Ida found her mind wholly preoccupied with one idea, that ballerina, and everything else felt tenuous and drab.

Love is no good.

And still, as they walked and Mister Greengrass resumed his chipper attitude, her mind reeled. Worse than any thesis she spent all night awake pondering. How can I spend the rest of my life with her? How can I convince her I am worthy? — but this thought was so disorienting. Really, what could she offer a lady better than what a man could? Objectively, this made no sense whatsoever. She certainly had no influence, or funds, or even experience to demonstrate. She had love though— would that be enough?

Of course it’s not, you foolish girl, her mind nastily supplied.

It was hard for Ida to contain her grief, as they went on. Mister Greengrass was going on about her having no need to apologize, but truly, if he could read even the half of her thoughts he would never speak to her again. Ida felt that she should apologize, over and over, for his time she’s wasted while her mind has been elsewhere. She was not herself.

…but then, he confessed that he wasn’t either.

Ida halted in her tracks, eyes widening a smidge. “Out of sorts in what way?” she asked, because even when lovesick, curiosity always got the better of her. Then, in a more quiet, confidential tone, she leaned in, “I think I might be going mad. Perhaps it’s better we part ways.”

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