Mating games come in different forms.
For Ira and Oleg, it is “catch me, brick.”
He throws aggressive little performances; she pretends to be a helpless poor thing. He growls, she suffers. He presses, she subtly informs the world that she has once again fallen into the paws of a monster, although she has long known the feeding schedule of this beast.
For Asya and Petya, it is “a station for three.”
And the third ones change regularly. Someone leaves, someone arrives. Only the eternal platform scene remains unchanged: he is trying to go somewhere, but do not leave; she curses him while clinging to his trouser leg.
For Sveta and Vanya, it is “a polka.”
A strange choreography where out of four legs only two are dancing. Sveta’s.
She carries the great love, the house, the hope and poor Vanyusha himself, who seems to have been born already slightly tired of his own participation in life.
For Nadya and Dima, it is “the elusive Joe.”
He runs away, she rushes after him. When she has more strength, she runs. When less, she crawls. The main condition of the game is always to remain at a distance, so that both preserve the sacred possibility of suffering.
For Natasha and Sasha, it is “mothers and daughters.”
More precisely, mothers and sons.
A capricious little hooligan and a mommy who runs through the inner bookstore looking for a recipe to re-educate a grown boy who has long learned how to live so that someone keeps saving him.
For Tanya and Kostya, it is “the clever girl and the beast.”
She gives him everything.
He gives her a word forbidden by common sense and the remaining fragments of female dignity.
This, of course, is not the whole variety.
For some, mating games are about aggression.
For some, about care.
For some, about love.
For some, about money.
For some, about loyalty.
For some, about betrayal.
For some, about the eternal “I will save you,” although both of them should have been rescued long ago, preferably separately.
In general, everything is as in nature.
Some birds bring gifts.
Others dance.
Others shout through the whole forest so that everyone understands what an enviable groom is standing before them.
Some little animals cuddle.
Others growl.
Others bite first and then wonder why no one wants a family nest.
To each his own.
The main thing is to notice one simple thing.
The script of the mating game almost always corresponds to the person’s inner request.
To who he wants to be in a relationship.
Who he knows how to be.
Who he is used to being.
And by what method he is used to receiving love, attention, power, pity, confirmation of his own value, or the right to say again: “Well, I knew it.”
And when this becomes visible, many things fall into place.
Because relationships rarely begin with another person.
More often, they begin with the role we have already brought with us.
Such things, my friends...
