We were once friends.
When I got back in contact with her she didn't remember me, but she was willing to communicate because we had a friend in common.
Three years later she tells me that she still does not remember me, and requested that I never contact her again.
She is a powerfully attractive woman but without a doubt every last man she's ever been with surely contemplated suicide; quite likely some completed it.
I try to comfort myself by reminding myself that she has two emotions: passion and furious rage.
My lady in a far-away land is far gentler and warmer than Who Moved My Cheese.