it should be easier to share about love, than, like, vomit, Simon-style gritty details aside. Sometimes I think I still compare myself to some image of a take-charge Crippled Lady in a work blazer that always knows what the right call is--this isn't that, which still makes me shy, but not as if I did something *wrong*, like, I don't know, give someone a big kiss so my brother could stick his hand in the guy's wallet(as if my brother and I cooperate that much, ha) For the Get Your Words Out "love" challenge:
Most people my age don’t keep such a record of a weekend’s worth of kisses. Usually, there’d be so many memories like that from which to choose, my current task might well be editing the unseemly ones to make a better example for a curious daughter or niece. In our family, we are fraught breeders and never have gotten down to it, there isn’t much to scrub, and the love that jump-started that weekend of kisses has outlasted more than a few marriages, just because it’s been so damned long since we shared it. Maybe it’s easier that way. Maybe he doesn’t have to see how much I hate to start the day, or I don’t have to know that, despite his mastery of advanced math, his virtual checkbook is fucking hopeless. (I don’t even know this, but it wouldn’t surprise me somehow, Capitalism is not very kind to either of us, although it’s more that it never knew me than that it turned on me, as with my beloved.)Maybe that makes it easier to keep hope alive: the fact that we have to close the door on other things to make room for the virtual sweet talk.
It's probably strange that the same person can make it possible for me to type such a spectrum of words, both “fucking’ and “beloved” being outside my lexicon at one time, not really the same time, but weird or not, it’s kind of true. One thing I found online, without even truly searching, was my perfect audience. Which, of course, in Movie World, would make us everything to each other in ways that would blow a hurricane through our present lives.. As the one with less to lose, sometimes I’m sorry we don’t live in Movie World, once in a while., but of course, I’ll live in this one. And if Eros is holding out on finding partners for me because I once imagined, with a tiny streak of girlie sadism, bumping into him after somebody else has left me all glowing and shit, he or they can stop, as these days he means too much to me to imagine rubbing his face in anything but, maybe, my cleavage.
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