She leans the chair back, my neck to rest in the cradle of the wash basin. The water comes out lukewarm. She knows it’s hot outside.
Shampoo. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. In small circles, her fingers work my scalp, massaging without too much pressure, scratching when there is no itch.
“This is the best part of my day”, I say.
“Mine too”.
It used to be on the left side of my head, now it’s on the right.
This does not make sense to me.
And while I was falling for you I put a ceiling on that, because you were a guy. Until I remembered why I opened the door to women in the first place: to not limit the likelihood of finding that one person who’d complement me so completely. So here we are. I was thorough when I looked for you. And I feel justified lying in your arms, ’cause I got here on my own terms, and I have no question there was some place I didn’t look.
I suppose I would have enjoyed Chasing Amy more if the dialogue had been more believable, but I couldn’t buy it.
We don’t live in a Dawson’s Creek world where everyone’s a psychologist, completely in tune with their emotions and the emotions of others.
People aren’t confrontational in real life either. They don’t say what they mean or mean what they say.
And when you’re trying to tell the girl that you’re in love with her, it doesn’t come out as some flowery, romantic verse, it comes out in jumbles. You’re tripping over your own words cause it’s the girl.
Maybe I was just hoping for a love story that worked out. I would have given in to the suspension of disbelief that people actually talk like that, had there been a happy ending.
I’m most productive on Saturday nights. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing nothing all day and I’m feeling guilty. I’ve never been one to work on Saturday afternoons, which were made for relaxation.
The nights are different though. It’s when I can concentrate on my writing. I’m tired. My guard is down.
The week comes pouring out.
With my back against the wall, I sit on the ground next to my back door, opening it to let the breeze drift in. Sometimes I turn my head to look outside and smell the night air. It’s cool, no matter the time of year. The street lamps are soft, and they bathe my back porch in warm light.
One can’t help but feel influenced by such serenity.
I’ve become a slave to this blog. After some self-evaluation, I’ve come to realize that everything is inspired but forced. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, no more.
It’s time to start writing when I want.
Try to put me down and make me feel bad. Do your best to make yourself look good.
Throw some advice my way (I’ll leave it). Assume you know me better than I know myself (what arrogance!). Give me some food for thought, and believe you were anything more than a passing fancy (but try to get over yourself).
My god, how wrong I was about you.