"Morning." I said.
"Good Morning!" She replied more cheerfully. Always more cheerfully.
"What are you up to?"
"Watching television. A show about hoarders. About to have breakfast. What are you up to?"
"Reading. Sleeping. Rinse & Repeat. Kind of lonely but I've had my fill of social interaction."
There's something that happens when you're in a serious, long term relationship. You become...serious. You become comfortable. Perhaps too comfortable in some cases, but in most cases its a phenomenon in which only the best of circumstances can lead to; the right alignments of moon and stars, the proper balance of humors, just the ordinate number of clouds in the sky. And its the things that you can't recreate, of course, that you miss most. Its those pangs which twist hardest in that chamber of mind and soul where desire is housed.
I do miss her still. Oh god, do I miss her. Last week a friend of min, a certain diminutive young lady with curly hair the colour of breathed-upon embers, was in my kitchen. She was cooking. Well, she was making macaroni and cheese; apply whichever verb to that you wish. And, in the process of looking for something she managed to get a fingertip on the bottom of the high locker and, unable to reach any higher, pried the locker open and stepped back, nearly across the room, looking for some spice or the other and muttering curse words to herself. The likeness; not of the person but the situation; was uncanny. I nearly wept.
Days like today would go unscripted, but perfectly orchestrated. I've already made my omelette. As usual it was more than any one person should eat in the morning. If two were to share it...well. There's no helping that now, is there? And then, I turned the television on and without even changing the channel, turned it off. I turned on the radio and, without really listening to anything, turned it off. At the end of my restlessness I went to fetch the light book. (I've gotten into the habit of reading two books at a time: One heavy; 'The Black Jacobins' in this case, and one light; Diane Setterfield's 'The Thirteenth Tale.) I'm only a few chapters from the end, the remaining pages gathered together look about the width of a church hymnal. I began to read, then fell asleep. When i woke up, I began reading, and fell asleep. There was no smell of shampoo and body butter to wake me. No tingle of hair in my nose or on my cheek. And no warmth. At around the third bout of waking I went to fetch my heavy sweater, an over-sized hoody, and an extra pillow. The pillow I held close to me, close to my chest. The sweater made it seem as though the thing had warm blood flowing through it; had a pulse and a furnace of life somewhere in its center. If I could have figured out a way to have it rise and fall in a rhythm matching, but not quite in sync, with my own, then perhaps I wouldn't have thought my next thought.
And that thought was: How sad you must look? A grown man spooning a pillow, burying his face into it in between burying his face in pages, and an equally sad looking dog nestled in the crook of his knees. If someone were to come bursting through the front door this very second, what would you do? How would you justify this? Have you no shame sir?
But I did not have any shame. Only want and a nerve wracking sort of nostalgia. The house was quiet, except for the occasional passing traffic, and I was warm. And comfortable. But...it was only a pillow. I was still lonely. I would have loved to hear someone else gasp when the uncertainty first cropped up. I would have liked to laugh quietly while I wiped the tears off of someone's face, and they off mine, before we both turned the page. I would have liked someone to be there. Not someone to talk to. Not someone to frolic with. Just be there.
I suppose I could have called someone. But then, I suppose I couldn't. Who would i call?
"This is really weird." My cousin Delsia would say, to which I would have to agree and wonder how it was I managed to convince her to let me hold her that close to begin with. Then, invariably, the conversation would turn to something much too practical for a Sunday morning.
"Aw, are you crying because he found his family?" Meghann would say in a tone that made her sound sweet and compassionate. I'd nod my head meekly and she would frown and reply dryly "That's so gay."
Jamira would never sit still long enough. Maria would want to talk about her boyfriend. Anyone else would want to talk. Talk, talk, talk.
'I haven't seen you in so long. Lets catch up!'
'He broke my heart. Why couldn't I have found someone like you?'
'Is this all we're going to do today?'
'Where'd you get this sweater? Can I have it?'
'Its too quiet in here.'
'What is this? A futon?'
'Something's poking me in my back'
'My feet are cold.'
There's no talking in the serious, long-term relationship. When your feet get cold, you wrap them among the legs of your partner. You get comfortable. You are comfortable. You are free to simply be there. There's no need for the chase. Not today at least. Not on a Sunday. You have your mate. She's gripped close to your ribs. Her fingers are waiting at the corners of the page because she knows you read slightly slower than she does. There's no talking. You kiss her neck, and she turns the page.
There was one I could reach out to, of course. But...She's still a danger in my mind. Missing one is bad enough. Missing two...can that even be done? Should it? Perhaps I need to sleep on it.
"Good Morning!" She replied more cheerfully. Always more cheerfully.
"What are you up to?"
"Watching television. A show about hoarders. About to have breakfast. What are you up to?"
"Reading. Sleeping. Rinse & Repeat. Kind of lonely but I've had my fill of social interaction."
There's something that happens when you're in a serious, long term relationship. You become...serious. You become comfortable. Perhaps too comfortable in some cases, but in most cases its a phenomenon in which only the best of circumstances can lead to; the right alignments of moon and stars, the proper balance of humors, just the ordinate number of clouds in the sky. And its the things that you can't recreate, of course, that you miss most. Its those pangs which twist hardest in that chamber of mind and soul where desire is housed.
I do miss her still. Oh god, do I miss her. Last week a friend of min, a certain diminutive young lady with curly hair the colour of breathed-upon embers, was in my kitchen. She was cooking. Well, she was making macaroni and cheese; apply whichever verb to that you wish. And, in the process of looking for something she managed to get a fingertip on the bottom of the high locker and, unable to reach any higher, pried the locker open and stepped back, nearly across the room, looking for some spice or the other and muttering curse words to herself. The likeness; not of the person but the situation; was uncanny. I nearly wept.
Days like today would go unscripted, but perfectly orchestrated. I've already made my omelette. As usual it was more than any one person should eat in the morning. If two were to share it...well. There's no helping that now, is there? And then, I turned the television on and without even changing the channel, turned it off. I turned on the radio and, without really listening to anything, turned it off. At the end of my restlessness I went to fetch the light book. (I've gotten into the habit of reading two books at a time: One heavy; 'The Black Jacobins' in this case, and one light; Diane Setterfield's 'The Thirteenth Tale.) I'm only a few chapters from the end, the remaining pages gathered together look about the width of a church hymnal. I began to read, then fell asleep. When i woke up, I began reading, and fell asleep. There was no smell of shampoo and body butter to wake me. No tingle of hair in my nose or on my cheek. And no warmth. At around the third bout of waking I went to fetch my heavy sweater, an over-sized hoody, and an extra pillow. The pillow I held close to me, close to my chest. The sweater made it seem as though the thing had warm blood flowing through it; had a pulse and a furnace of life somewhere in its center. If I could have figured out a way to have it rise and fall in a rhythm matching, but not quite in sync, with my own, then perhaps I wouldn't have thought my next thought.
And that thought was: How sad you must look? A grown man spooning a pillow, burying his face into it in between burying his face in pages, and an equally sad looking dog nestled in the crook of his knees. If someone were to come bursting through the front door this very second, what would you do? How would you justify this? Have you no shame sir?
But I did not have any shame. Only want and a nerve wracking sort of nostalgia. The house was quiet, except for the occasional passing traffic, and I was warm. And comfortable. But...it was only a pillow. I was still lonely. I would have loved to hear someone else gasp when the uncertainty first cropped up. I would have liked to laugh quietly while I wiped the tears off of someone's face, and they off mine, before we both turned the page. I would have liked someone to be there. Not someone to talk to. Not someone to frolic with. Just be there.
I suppose I could have called someone. But then, I suppose I couldn't. Who would i call?
"This is really weird." My cousin Delsia would say, to which I would have to agree and wonder how it was I managed to convince her to let me hold her that close to begin with. Then, invariably, the conversation would turn to something much too practical for a Sunday morning.
"Aw, are you crying because he found his family?" Meghann would say in a tone that made her sound sweet and compassionate. I'd nod my head meekly and she would frown and reply dryly "That's so gay."
Jamira would never sit still long enough. Maria would want to talk about her boyfriend. Anyone else would want to talk. Talk, talk, talk.
'I haven't seen you in so long. Lets catch up!'
'He broke my heart. Why couldn't I have found someone like you?'
'Is this all we're going to do today?'
'Where'd you get this sweater? Can I have it?'
'Its too quiet in here.'
'What is this? A futon?'
'Something's poking me in my back'
'My feet are cold.'
There's no talking in the serious, long-term relationship. When your feet get cold, you wrap them among the legs of your partner. You get comfortable. You are comfortable. You are free to simply be there. There's no need for the chase. Not today at least. Not on a Sunday. You have your mate. She's gripped close to your ribs. Her fingers are waiting at the corners of the page because she knows you read slightly slower than she does. There's no talking. You kiss her neck, and she turns the page.
There was one I could reach out to, of course. But...She's still a danger in my mind. Missing one is bad enough. Missing two...can that even be done? Should it? Perhaps I need to sleep on it.
