Imaginary and not so imaginary friends, let me introduce you to Senora Sabasa de Garcia. She was eighteen when Goya first saw her. He was painting her uncle, Don Evaristo Perez de Castro, when he saw her. He had been painting all day, and yet he insisted on a sitting with her that very moment, and presented her with the composition when he was done. He then left, never to see her again.

Maybe I am a hopeless romantic, but that story touched me.Wouldn’t it be glorious to fall in deep, hopeless love? To have the love of one’s life forever unattainable? The image of a woman seared into your soul, untarnished by the passage of time, space, and emotion?

I once heard a song about a man who says to his wife, “You are not the person you were. You do not hum to yourself without reason all day, and your eyes do not light up at the sight of me.” It was in bengali and I do not translate very well. I don’t even remember the name of the person who wrote it right now. But what he is trying to say, is that this woman is not in love with him any more. They have changed, evolved, and drifted far, heartbreakingly far, apart. Perhaps a lost love is the purest of loves. Forever virgin.