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If You Don't Believe in Love 2nd Place, Young Writers Fiction by Andrea Runyun Arlington TX “I have only one question,” Arjun began. I tried to predict what he would ask. “Do you like me?” “Do you want to go to the Bach concert next week?” Or perhaps, “Do you realize we can’t have a relationship, since I’m six years older than you?” But he had a different question. “If you don’t believe in love,” he asked, “then why do you want to be hugged?” Oh, simple. I replied, “It increases oxytocin.” Arjun laughed, blowing cigarette smoke out his nose. “Oxytocin? Isn’t that a hormone for bonding with babies?” For a devoted English major, he had an admirable conversance with biology. “You’re right, it’s a steroid hormone. It’s involved in milk secretion, birthing, mother-child bonding, but also in bonding through touch between people in any sort of relationship—family, friends. . .” Here I halted, not yet bold enough to bring up oxytocin’s role in more intimate relationships. “So. . .oxytocin,” he repeated. “I should have guessed you had a biological explanation.” He inhaled and almost said something more, but stopped himself, perhaps hoping I would answer the questions still suspended in the air. The preceding conversation, the body language, the day of the week (Saturday night), and he weather (cold and starry) had converged to make this the perfect time to resolve our dilemma. I opened the dam that had held back my feelings for months. “Arjun, when I met you, I didn’t think you were all that attractive--” Here he choked over laughter again, but I hurried to finish my sentence. “But I’ve gotten to know you, and now, I really like you.” Arjun seemed pleased with the revelation. “I normally wouldn’t like to hear I’m unattractive,” he replied, “but from you, it’s kind of beautiful.” “It’s a compliment that I like you without finding you attractive. In fact, I feel more comfortable liking you with the assurance that I like you for your brain and not for the reasons people normally find like one another.” Indeed, I expected no competition over Arjun, since he was unattractive in the categories most women care about. Looks? He resembled an Indian elephant. Smoking/non-smoking? He smoked like a bag of burnt popcorn. Career? Hospitalization for obsessive-compulsive disorder kept him out of school for four years, and he now distinguished himself as Stanford’s oldest undergraduate. In contrast, I was one of the youngest. An early college program gave me a ticket into university coursework, internships, and a group of peers several years older than me. Now, like a duck reared by dogs, I thought I belonged to this group of older people, and assumed that since I considered them my peers, they considered me theirs. “It still cracks me up that you like being hugged for oxytocin,” Arjun mused. “It makes sense to me,” I retorted. “People think I’m strange, since I form my ideas about relationships from science and not from television.” “Oh, I don’t think you’re strange.” Nearing my dorm, we slowed our pace and transitioned from a walking mode to a mode of wondering how to say goodnight. True to the laws of interpersonal dynamics, we needed a resolution as substantial as my recent disclosure. How would this conversation end, I wondered? Would we plan to date? Would we plan to be “just friends?” Or would we circumvent the conundrum of our relationship by pretending it never happened? “Well . . .” Arjun looked at the trees, searching for the correct words. “Here, let’s sit down.” As the much younger member of a dubious couple, I had to initiate anything bordering on physical contact. We seated ourselves and thought silently for several moments. “Can I have a hug, Arjun?” “Certainly.” He put his arm over my shoulder and rubbed my arm. “So you think you have strange ideas about relationships?” he asked gently. “Yes, it’s horrible. I made the mistake of reading an entire call number of books about human reproductive behavior. You know how that is, when you get interested in something, and you check out all the books on that topic, and read them all?” He nodded his head as I spoke. “I’ve done it many times,” he said knowingly. “And even as you read the books, you know your interest won’t last forever – at least not at such intensity, but you accept in advance that your passion, as it were, will decline. Or oscillate. Many times, I burn out on a subject, but then my interest returns.” “I’ve experienced the same phenomenon.” “Well I think that happens with people. They fall in love with, as I said, the best thing around; that is, the person with whom they have the best chance to increase their reproductive fitness. And maybe the environment changes, or maybe they change, or the person changes, and someone else is best suited to serve their reproductive interests. So they switch. They fall in love with the new person.” I could tell Arjun was about to say something, so I hurried to finish my pontification. “And that’s why I’m never marrying – I advocate serial monogamy.” “Oh, I’d have to differ with you on that one.” His body was tenser, and I became aware of the incongruity of our physical and emotional positions at the moment. “But you don’t believe in God,” I countered, “so you have no reason to restrain your ideas. . .” “But you don’t believe in anything,” he kidded. “You don’t believe in love, you don’t believe in marriage. . .” “It’s because I believe in science!” I said jokingly. “Oh, that explains it.” “Yes, it does.” “And so you’re never going to marry, you’re never going to have children. . .” “No, they would bore me.” “And you’re never going to fall in love,” “That’s right.” “Never?” “Never.” I savored the ensuing moment of silence. I wanted to stay that way forever, talking with my most intellectual friend, resting my head on his shoulder. . . “So what other ideas do you have that you think are strange?” Glad for the chance to make my final point, I said, “I don’t have a problem with men marrying younger women.” He stiffened again, so I hurried to explain, “Men can reproduce for essentially their whole lives, but women reproduce best around age. . .” I hesitated. Should I say 18? Yes. I resumed, “around age 18-26 or so, and that’s why it makes sense for men to marry younger women.” I wanted to continue my explanation, but Arjun interrupted, “You know, there really is a big difference between 18 and 24.” “Well, of course there is,” I replied immediately. I felt that the dilemma of the past half-year was ball about to roll from the top of a hill—but in what direction, I couldn’t predict. I lay in his arm, looking at the stars and holding my breath. Finally, I asked quietly, “Arjun, what do you think?” “That’s a hard one.” “Don’t worry that you’ll hurt my feelings.” “Let me guess—you don’t believe in feelings.” “Ha! I guess I don’t. I suppose it’s hard to take feelings seriously when you realize they’re just brain chemicals.” “Oh, but they’re so much more.” “I’d have to differ with you on that one,” I said jokingly. “For instance, right now, I really feel, well, pretty much in love with you, but I could get rid of the feeling if I wanted to, because it’s not me with the feeling; it’s just my brain chemicals.” “Hmm, well that takes some pressure off me.” “Good. Now, tell me the truth.” “The truth?” “The whole truth.” “Well, the truth is. . .I feel sorry for you, since you don’t believe in so many wonderful things like love, and marriage, and feelings. Perhaps you don’t believe they could be any good, but it’s my opinion that even if they are just brain chemicals and products of evolution, they are some of the best things in life. . .Don’t give up on love.” “I haven’t given up on love. I really could love you.” “No, you couldn’t. There are plenty of things wrong with this situation. . .the age difference, the fact that I’m almost 30 and still have no idea what I’m doing with my life.” “That doesn’t bother me.” “Well, it should. You need to wait. . .you’ll find real love later.” “But. . .I don’t believe in real love.” “Why not? Even if it is just brain chemicals, does that make it any less real?” “Maybe not.” “For example, when you’re sleepy, do you say, oh, I’m not really sleepy, because it’s just my melatonin or serotonin or some brain hormone?” “No.” “You say, “I’m sleepy,” and you go to bed. And that’s what happens when you’re really in love. You say, “I’m in love,” and. . ..” We simultaneously noticed the joke, and I finished the sentence: “you go to bed.” When the laughter had cleared, Arjun added, “I would feel so honored if you were in love with me, but I don’t think you are.” What bitter medicine. He paused, then remarked, “But I do think you’re sleepy.” “I am.” “Go to sleep, little girl. It’s past your bedtime.” “Little girl?” I said teasingly. “Yes, you’re a little girl. You might be precocious, but you’re still very young, and still cocky enough to say you don’t believe in love. You’ll get over it sometime.” “I guess I’ll trust you, since you’re older and wiser.” He nodded. We looked at each other for a moment and then parted.
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