Dear Roman, let me tell you why no man is rich enough for me

I was with a man the other day. It became clear, as he spoke to me on the park bench that he did not think he was rich enough for me. He never made it explicit. He never told me that he did not make enough money for me. He merely alluded to the things he cannot do. The machines he will never build. The projects that will never start. It was not meant in a condescending way, and there was no arrogance. He said it sadly—the way that only somebody acutely aware that his life is now measured not in years since birth, but years until death can say it. I did not like seeing him sad—I cut him short to remind him that he has plenty of money, and he reminded me that the things he wants happen to be very expensive. He laughed, and we looked at the browning leaves and his wolf-dog that ran through the park, and I felt him near me—his breathing, his composure, his well-executed attempt at a lifetime of decency—and he felt me—a girl with restless hope. There was nobody else in the universe. Nothing else mattered. But even in this circumstance, we both looked out into air and tried as hard as possible to avoid seeing each other.

If I looked at him, what would he see? He would not see naivety in my searching eyes. He respects me too much. But the look would make him sad. It is not an expectant look, but a look of wonder. And he is old enough and smart enough to know that whatever I see in him—that is not true. Whatever I am hoping for—he cannot give it. And he has lived long enough to know what is worth trying and what is not.

He does not want to see me because he does not see the way I see him. At some point something in his mind determined that as he does not have enough money for his own endeavors, he does not have enough money for me. He has not lived the life he should have. That because he sees himself as a failure, that I will too.

He hates himself enough that he does not look at me for long enough to see what I see. He does not see that all I ever wanted was for him to try. I wanted love. I wanted care.

The trouble with men with money is that money becomes an abstract concept. It becomes a status symbol of their worth. They are worth more than some men, but not as much as other men. They can unlock certain kinds of women—women talk to them now, instead of mocking them—but not every woman. They can provide mentorship. They are managers. They create jobs. They not only have money, but they move money around for other people. They not only have a livelihood, but they create livelihood.

And there comes the trouble. A man with money can provide me with a life with him—if he wanted to. A man with money can send me lilacs and lilies and lavish me with love—if he wanted to. A man with money can bring me joys large and small.

But he does not want to. A man with money wants to be loved for himself—for the strength of his integrity and his capacity to control chaos—and I want to love him for this. I do love him for this. But he does not let me in enough to show him.

He keeps me at a distance, wanting more and more from me without giving me anything—because he knows he can give me everything—and deciding he does not want to be the man to do it. Let another man do it. A richer man can do it. And he does not see that I do not want a richer man—I want this man in front of me, who refuses to look me in the eye.