my road-story telling

We have reached a place which is both a top and a bottom.  I am at the nadir of my economic woes, although any possible resolution is in the future, I am at the apex of my virtue, having given up everything, I am like the blind man who is carefree because his loss of vision has freed him from the concerns of other men, there is only light and darkness, life and death and he lives only in darkness. And our relationship is so solid, so compressed, so complete, that it can only become permanent or explode from its own critical mass.
She has made the choice that I will get to shortly.
Before I get to these portions of the recital, it is important to understand how the story teller's mind works.  I have to be in the mind of any character and into its emotions.  The only way to do that is to do it in real life.  The only way to tell an impassioned story is to tell it to someone.
The story has to not be a work of effort, but must come freely from actually living the story. If it is work, it will read as work.  You can read my books on physics and you can see...both.  Part is drudgery, finding the right equations, the right source material from what is already available.  But there are the insights, where the equations are set aside for a moment and insight comes into play.  In a predetermined universe of the type I envision, you might thing such aha moments would not exist, but the fact that they have already happened and happen again in perpetuity does not lessen their value to the mosquito trapped in their amber.
The same is true of the love and more importantly the sex that we had together.  You might argue that the love, being the nobler sentiment is the more important to the mosquito, but you forget the sweet taste of blood as it feeds.
Love remains.  Love is both sweet and bitter.  In the presence of the one you love it is, truly, the highest emotion.  But when you lover has left you and has gone on to her own future and present lovers it remains heavy and black and turbulent in your gut.
Not so the sex.  When you remember that, independent of the love, it is a joy.  You remember the outer and the inner beauty.  You remember the close proximity of looking into her eyes, her back and the back of her head, you remember all the sounds she makes, both the intelligible and the ones which hold more meaning.  You remember all of the tastes she is capable of, sweet, bitter, bitter sweet like the love  you can never get away from.  You remember all the different feelings, the softness of her thighs, the different textures of her different hair, the way her teeth and gums and tongue felt against yours, and the feel of your limps on her throat, and the feel of her throat in your hands.  Sex is by far the more important memory..