She asks me to do something for her; something I’ve done before; something I’d like to do now. She asks me and my heart pounds and in these moments I know what I am.
A red-hot blooded woman.
But, I find myself saying no.
I gotta control my crazy, I say.
What you mean? she says.
Sex makes me emotional. I’ve been really good not being crazy lately, and I want to keep it that way.
I understand, she says.
A few days later. I’m laying on my bed because after a long day of being upright I need to be horizontal for a moment before I can resume my activities. She’s laying next to me. I can feel her form; it’s pressed against mine; it is soft; it is strong; it is hers.
“I can’t get comfy,” she says. She places her arm over my neck. I want to turn around. I want to turn around. I want to turn around and pull her tight and look at her like I used to and tell her just how much I love her, just how long I’ll wait for her to come back to me, just how much I’d like to do the thing she asked me to do
but I don’t, I won’t, I can’t. I just let my heart attempt to force its way out of my chest
“I should probably keep my hands to myself, but I just want to pet you,” she says as she runs her hand through my hair.
out my mouth and into the realm of bacteria. Yes. It can get hurt. Yes. It can get sick. Yes. It can die. Yes.
But I don’t, I won’t, I can’t.
This makes me sound more neurotic than I am. I wouldn’t like for you to think that I am neurotic; I would like for you to think that I am sane, because I am sane. I always make things twice as big when I write them.
Actually, probably not in this instance. In the darker times, yes. But not here; not now.
Maybe writing isn’t a good thing, because it distorts reality. Writing always distorts reality. Thinking distorts reality. Reality distorts reality.
This is a stupid thing to say, because I am better than that. Alright, I’ll say it. Truth exists, and it is reality. The interpretation of truth is always a distortion. The representation of truth is always a distortion. Even the non-ethereal experience of truth — an experience in which I currently reside — is always a distortion.
In reality, she likes to be close to me. She may feel the love-feelings I feel, but I cannot be certain.
In reality, she wants our clothes to disappear in an hour of shellfish and mixed fabrics, part my self-controlled weakness, and part my delectable, detestable, abomination of strength.
In reality, she wants me to make guacamole. (She’ll soon find out we don’t have tortilla chips. [If someone reads this, they’ll probably think that tortilla chips have some sort of significance. They don’t. They are just tortilla chips, you pretentious bastards.])