I wish I could say that I was filled with the same youthfulness that swept me by storm when my dear Gatsby held me in his arms during our teenage years. Yet in a fury of unfortunate events, my middle aged days became engulfed with gloom and regret. About twelve years ago, a bright sense of false hope was instilled in me. On that distant yet unforgettable day, my heart raced faster than a wild Thoroughbred as the two men I loved most dearest fought for my whole heart. At the time, though it may not have been apparent, I was deeply moved to hear Tom say that he loved me and would “‘take better care of [me] from now on’” (Fitzgerald 133) with such vigor. What an ignorant fool I was! To think that all would be reconciled over a singular intimate discussion and cold fried chicken was so childish of me. I moved to the East in hopes of finding my destined lover and establishing a life of prosperity, but look at where I am now. My dream is as distant as ever, if not quashed at this point.
During afternoon tea with the always well-informed Jordan Baker, I learned that the woman I had killed more than a decade ago was the precious mistress of my husband. Upon hearing the details, I no…show more content… I knew he was right, but I did not want to admit it. I assumed my selfishness could be detected a mile away. Did I truly understand the concept of love? I do not think I ever will. I was naturally drawn to individuals who were able to afford a grand lifestyle. This conditional view of love had led me into the situation that I was permanently in. Despite the fact that Gatsby was no longer present, I still had access to my vivid imagination. Often while Tom and his mistress had their energetic conversations, I would daydream about the fond memories I had with Gatsby. This was the closest I could possibly get to reliving the best moments of my life, knowing that nothing in the present could remotely amount to authentic