We’re not sitting in a café together. We’re not sitting on a stoop, where our knees would accidentally touch when we laugh, when we solemnly swear to try some tenderness. I’m on the rug, he’s in one of two place, in front of whatever device that lets him say “hi”.
Older. Wiser? Preparing for all the shit that might come blowing my way. In most cases it’s make believe. It’s the life long story of suffering from fear rather than real threats. Over and over again. But so are you, right? It’s not only my life story - it’s yours as well. it must be, cause I was specifically told over and over again that I wasn’t alone.
How can an email account be silent when the city is roaring. Behind the screen the mirror is lurking. Asking questions I can’t possibly answer.
He keeps repeating it, monday hi, tuesday hi, wednesday hi, and I’m on my rug. I wake up thinking it’s probably not fair of me being here. I lie in bed deconstructing that thought.
I go to the kitchen to make tea. I wonder how much chat about sex one can put in a novel. How much is fair to him, how much is interesting to the reader, how much I’m willing to share, how much the publisher wants. I go back to the rug.
hi I take a break and sit on the stoop alone, no cigarettes anymore, only the distant roaring and my neighbor watering plants. A different stoop, a different time. I go back to the kitchen.
He tells me I’m using love as a misnomer. Confusing love and lovers, or was it love and sex? I agree to some extent, seeing his side of the story. I play a song from a disney movie I loved as a child. Does it matter which one? It taught me to love lovers.
He believes in no beauty and I frankly, couldn’t care less. Love of my life, lover of my life, on my rug I deserve all he has to offer. I go back to the rug.