Dear me, it is me, and apologies for getting kicked out of the local poker club, how sentimental I have become, one of those side effects that the doctors treat with the best medicine, although they could certainly do without the pointing. It is just so hard to maintain cynicism when your eyes are cleared of their chemical glaucoma, and the world is held at bay by the power of a room with its curtains drawn.
I am thinking about breathing, and how the best kisses are her every exhalation, brought deep into your lungs, though sometimes the best are certainly her every inhalation, when her eyes seem explicit warnings of a pending explosive decompression, though the safest are certainly when you both inhale together, leaving you with no choice but to slowly make your way around the bends. I have not assessed the relative danger of simultaneous exhalation, though not because I am unafraid to re-run the experiments, nor have I exhausted my research funding.
Or maybe I am thinking about flat out running! Yes, that is what I am effectively doing during my healing process, wind sprints from affection. As she caresses my cheek, I take her hand and gently kiss the wee scar on her wrist and whisper, 'Look! Over there!' And as soon as her head is turned I am gone. My starter pistol is considered a deadly weapon.
I think this is because of all the fears I have forgotten, the one that has returned with clarity and vengeance is my fear of being understood. I harbor nightmares of accidentally picking up the phone while she is talking to her sister only to overhear her lament, 'Oh, I wish he would confuse me more.' bored sigh. Ooh! Ooh! No, contented sigh.
I did this before, with a bit more ease. I would drop her off at her flat, or not, because the only thing predictable about me back then was my unpredictability, and she would sit with her sister in the kitchen and lament, 'I just don't get him. Maybe it's because he's older, or foreign or maybe it's just because he's ungettable, but damn.'
Though, for a laugh, I would forgive her manually picking the pepperoncinis out of my salad and exclaiming to our tablemates, 'THEY UPSET HIS TUMMY, YOU KNOW.' Which I would answer by saying, 'Look! Over there!' in a rare display of meta-predictability.
6 comments:
It appears that elusive old men with gastric problems are just the ticket where making foreign women mutter the word, 'Damn', is concerned.
Note to self....
"...and the world is held at bay by the power of a room with its curtains drawn."
I love coming across sentences like this one that are beautiful and also beautifully architected.
yccm, elusive YOUNG men, too. ahem.
stacia, there is a mechanical engineering classroom directly above my office, and i like to think that i am becoming more adept at architectural structure by proximity.
So I watched "Last Kiss" yesterday and I think it's official...you could take Zach Braff in a fight. Ya, he's got some inches on you, but he's lanky as hell and as long as he doesn't hit you in the liver, I think you're good.
"...the only thing predictable about me back then was my unpredictability..."
isn't that a necessary part of living a passionately upset life? or everything to excess, moderation a naughty four-letter word?
And couldn't you argue that starter pistols finish more things than they begin, namely certain uncertainties?
How does one get kicked out of the local poker club?! Playing Journey too loudly? Foreigner, perhaps? Bryan Adams??
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