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According to Angelina, there are three types of “dating” women as far as men are concerned.
they would happily copulate with, but not much else.
is the one they like to keep around for company and general amusement for as long as possible.
Translation: until boredom appears, or until they decide they’re ready to grow up.
is the one they want to spend the rest of their lives waking up to.
The theory has its complications of course. Some men aren’t sure which woman they’re currently looking for, and others don’t know when to make the jump.
How to distinguish yourself from the three types of women discussed when you can be any one at any given time?
Perhaps Angelina was making it too simple. Perhaps my analytic mind made it too complicated? I never considered myself to be insubstantial, but at the right time with the right person that theory might have been tested and found flawed. I pictured three men in my head. “One” was sex, “Two” was a friend and “Three” was the home of my soul. I supposed at that moment of recollection the theory was sound. But...I was also not a man.
I’ve decided that I like fairy tales far more than I do reality. In fairy tales, any wrong can be undone. Any injustice can be turned into the greatest triumph. In fairy tales, even in the darkest night, a dream can come true. In reality, it is far different. In reality, we wait for the other shoe to drop. We wait for the verification of all the things we cannot be, do, have or achieve. Once we happen upon our despair, we nod and assume we never could have had it any other way.
That never happens in fairy tales.
All the worrying in the world doesn’t change a thing. Persistence might stand a chance. Resilience might too. Unflinching faith has more power then the two combined. But worry? No, I hate to tell you...worry doesn’t shift anything.
What is going to be will be – whether you worry over it or not. So you can choose to worry and kill yourself a little more everyday ruminating over what may or may not happen...or you can enjoy the simple pleasures that simple existence can provide. There ARE simple pleasures in this existence, but you have to look carefully to see them.
Yolanda wondered how she could get things wrong all the time. Surely it would seem the law of averages would work in her favor sometime. It never seemed to. The lens with which she viewed life and its events was irretrievably skewed. It reeked of cat piss. Her circumstance and all the people involved in it. She could clean for days and the stench and distortion would remain. She made the wrong decisions, trusted the wrong people.
Did this mean she needed to consider doing the exact opposite of her every inclination? A lifetime of going right, when left felt...right?
Angelina dreamt of males as they ought to have been. During times when work was something that actually made one break a sweat, and battles were just a rudimentary fact of life, she wondered what type of man she would have found herself quietly admiring. I likened myself to be a warrior’s wife in every respect. Angelina wasn’t fond of aggression, but she was fond of the physique. She decided someone behind the battle would suit her tastes. A craftsman, perhaps a bowyer relied on for the deadly merit of their work, with sweat and a little brawn to match.
Marvin never understood the controversy over words that were debatable in their accuracy. To hypothecate over the validity of a word that had been used and accepted for decades seemed more of a nit then a true problem with his literary effort. This after all, was not an English class. It was a thesis yes, but the professor seemed to have forgotten his mastery was in nuclear science, not the King’s English. The head of the Science Department was more than a partial ass, he was an entire one. Marvin vowed to use hypothecate on a regular basis, to annoy.
Barbara watched her Aunt Esther’s condition very carefully. That was how the family referred to it. The “condition,” it was called, as if diabetes was some sort of unmanageable disease of weakness. Relatives whispered over it with great reverence as if her longanimity was something so noble and pious that all must lower their heads and shame themselves for not being nearly so tolerant. Barbara sneered with distaste. Aunt Esther neglected her medication, made a production of all the symptoms and made it the topic of every family discussion. Diabetes was not her affliction; it was her greatest theatrical production.
George lamented over the constant fuss about race. Were there not familiar issues, tendencies and behaviors that were not exclusive to hue? The notion of racism seemed to be a human tendency of trying to eschew shortcomings or negative attributes by assigning bad elements to someone based on something as asinine as shade. He would contend that we were all fucked, in some fashion. What did it matter if you were testaceous or nearing pigment that made you almost transparent?
His sister would say this was a convenient argument for a black man dating a white woman. He knew better.
Cheryl noticed that new hobbies could not just be sampled and enjoyed on a limited basis. They had to be consumed. She would immerse herself in exploring every nook and cranny of them until she was exhausted, broke or lost. The aquarium was the latest exercise in obsession, with daily visits to the pet stores and intensive online research all designed to create the perfect underwater habitat. Titivating the large glass aquarium with coliseum ruins, vibrant artificial plumes of absurd underwater plant life, Cheryl’s poor inhabitants began to swim about in bewilderment. No underwater home had ever been this ornate.
Lola wandered the cluttered sidewalk aimlessly, hoping to lose the arrogant socialite she found herself engaged to. He was all smiles this evening, painfully aware of every set of eyes that studied him. He squeezed her hand gently when he felt her losing interest. Lola scowled. She was far too intelligent to pander to the bias of appearances. She decided at that she hated him. As they entered the vomitorium, Lola chuckled at the irony. A hideous word she thought to describe something so grand and pompous. She looked at impeccably crafted architecture and let her fingers unwind from his.
The time just after sunset separated the well intentioned from the insidious. Cockshut represented the ending of good and everything that went with it. Would he feel so romantic about it if he hadn’t chosen drug trafficking as his career of choice? Perhaps then it would just be the time to gather an invisible family about him, and watch his children finish school work while his wife complained about the way the living room was left. To anyone who spoke with him, they would assume the latter was his life, never the former. He had always been clever with disguises.
Celene picked her spot in the remote quarter of the park. Here there were no muted conversations from people who not so secretly wanted to be overhead.
In this space of earth waited a different sort of performer. Vibrant and boastful, it spoke not to her, but to the turdiform gathering somewhere off in the invisible distance. Their chattering was not so obstructive that she couldn’t channel her thoughts. She sat on a soft wool blanket, Indian style with a hand on each rounded knee. She closed her eyes, waiting for silence to tell her something noise forgot to mention.
Adverse conditions whelped a dangerous new breed of man. The young boy knew nothing of compassion or the responsibility that came with leadership. He cared not about the safety or wellbeing of anyone. Let the girls fight for their right to exist just as he had. There lay permanently on his face the sneer of impudence. He sought out conflict and leapt at it like a starving wolf, leaving for display the hideous remains as an example of his ruthlessness. He presumed nothing about survival and doubted even less. He was born cold, he would perish as blue as flame.
“You disgust me.”
There was no gentle way to say something so pointed and basic. She had toyed with loathing but there was something so ceremonious about disgust it could never be subject to misinterpretation.
His measured breathing was the only proof that she had uttered the words out loud.
“You want to know why I’m distant, and there it is. You disgust me. There are moments when I can hardly stand the sound of your voice or the idea of your touch. I am disgusted by your cowardice and your deception. Silence has been easier to offer than revolt.”
Jenny’s aura was blue. Sometimes it shifted to green, or a bluish green. Once it was purple, but only for an instant. It made sense, this albedo colored with whatever rested underneath her passivity.
She smiled coyly to those that passed her in a busy bar. She knew a secret. She had the ability to manifest whatever she wanted. Free flowing libations danced around her in the hands of people trying to forget what caused them pain. They wondered why she sipped seltzer and stayed vigilant. She offered no reply. She studied them and their colors with that mischievous grin.
Rick looked as if he had two doodled birds flying away on his face; two hairy eyebrows that commanded full attention on an otherwise forgettable visage. His mother was equally unfortunate. They regarded each other silently while she waited for death to visit.
“Do you think I’m being punished for something?”
Rick was unable to take his eyes from the dewlap that jiggled beneath a troubled chin. She waited for his response. He believed her ragged breathing indicated she would not be able to recover from the answer. He shook his head, but his eyes never made it to hers.
“Where are the pearls?”
Edith ignored Ned’s grumpiness, turning instead to look for her granddaughter. Mary had been suspiciously quiet for too long. In the distraction of ornaments and melancholy holiday music, Mary slipped away. Edith followed a trail of packing peanuts to the dining room. Ned was complaining about Edith’s placement of the tree as usual, his voice quietly trailing off when he realized he was alone in the parlor.
Edith stood in the doorway of the dining room watching Mary wading her way through a box of photos, her head adorned in a perfect chaplet of faux pearls.
“What the hell is a gnomon?”
Sherry impatiently ignored the smirk Barry offered in reply.
“Did he just call me that little bastard that people put in their gardens? Who uses gnomon in a poem?”
Barry thought for a moment. “It’s a piece of a sundial, hence his remarks about shadows and your love.”
“He just called me a fat garden ornament. Why can’t I meet a normal man who says regular things? Would a Spartan ever say something so utterly ridiculous?”
They both shared the flashed image of a tall, muscular Spartan in a fiery red skirted tunic.
“Why does everything in your home look like a weapon?”
Sherry turned to watch Jeffrey reviewing the décor of her bedroom with pursed lips. She wondered if he had any idea how much of a woman he could be at times.
“Even your bedroom, God...sex with you must be a battle.” His swept his perfectly manicured fingers along one of the cherry wood posts on her bed. He kept his pinky elevated as if he were a curator in the museum of her sexual history.
Jeffrey let a finger rest near the flowered spear finial resting near the top.
“I can’t be a curmudgeon.” Rita asserted.
Silence as a reply typically meant agreement when dealing with most, but when engaging a notorious grump it often meant the avoidance of a deeper debate.
“Curmudgeons are old and gnarled. Their backs hunch over and they have nothing positive to say. I am not old. I’m sexy. Everyone knows a curmudgeon cannot be sexy.”
She waited for a reply this time. The longer she waited, the more agitated she became. Straightening her spine for emphasis she leaned in to look into his eyes.
“Curmudgeons don’t have sex.”
A flicker of recognition, finally.
Charlie didn’t believe his words to be completely honest, but they certainly were not the great lies that others made them out to be. Perhaps words were more of a gentle prevarication. It wasn’t that he was lying after all; he just wasn’t revealing all of the chapters in the book. He gave Cherrie the portions that would cast him in the best light and give her a reason to believe he wasn’t the cad everyone made him out to be.
There was no shame in his arrogance. He was doing this for her own safety. She would eventually understand.
Jeffrey was spending far too much time trying to understand the abstemious nature of her sexual habits. There was something in her eyes that hinted at a deviance he was intrigued by and yet, she refused him. Steadily she resisted every advance. He tried everything - poetry, unsolicited gifts and constant compliments.
Was she waiting for him to grab a fistful of hair and drag her down the hall? Something told him she would beat him physically if he made the attempt. Perhaps that would turn her on? He imagined her using the phallic bedpost as a spike for heads.
Jill could always spot Harold’s work in class. No matter the subject matter or assignment, his color choices always gave him away. Even in the most unusual circumstances, he found a way to make his color selection work to his own advantage. It was his way of resisting going along with the herd.
This assignment was fruit. Simple enough. A banana, strawberry and peach were placed before them with the instruction to blend in order to achieve the appropriate color for each. Harold began working on his banana with that same affinity for caesious tint. The instructor would surely balk.
There always seemed to be some sort of issue dividing them. She was too successful, he was too destructive. She was a go-getter while he eternally waited to be given. Her reservations grated irritatingly against his desires to live without containment. They might as well have been opposite ends of a magnet. Still, their love seemed inexplicably anemious, able to endure the blustery gusts of their differences.
They would say their goodbyes, but they were never permanent. He did worry that she would eventually grow bored with testing their endurance, so he found himself in a bit of a quandary.
To reveal him would mean to chase her away for good. She was precious, something better to leave on the shelf untouched rather than risk destruction with excessive handling. He would have to earn her, he thought. Never one for proper planning, he built his strategy amid the ruins of scattered affairs. He would fix himself only when he realized he could be more.
Perhaps it was foolhardy to believe she would still be there when he made his grand proclamations or tried to escape a deeper discussion by facetiously summing it all up with a twinkle in his eye.
Margaret twirled the pasta around on her plate until the long threads began to take on a life of their own, mingling together in some annelidous manner that succeeded in making Cherrie more than a little nauseous.
“Can you stop that, please?”
Margaret looked up. “Stop what?”
“That ridiculous twirling. Just eat the damned noodles. You’re driving me mad.”
Margaret let her fork drop in her plate with a noisy and messy splatter. Cherrie studied the dots of red sauce that landed about Margaret’s chin, pondering whether she should alert her of the piggish mess she made of her face.
Perhaps it was the cunning of a wise man. Charlie stirred with doubt occasionally, but he remained as confident as he could while relying on his knowing her better than anyone else. He would only go so far as to test the limits of her endurance. Never beyond. What to do with the internecine events that wedged an even broader gap between them? He was sure her entirely family despised him. Based on her tearful explanation of events in which she was the only one bearing a wounded heart, it was natural that they would turn violently against the monster.
There was so much to do, but first things first. Charlie tried assembling his scattered thoughts into a logical enterprise. Mental clutter roused his anger, particularly when he felt the squawks of others birds demanding to know what he would do next. How could he make flying by the seat of his pants sound intellectual and sage?
He immersed himself in his job with perfunctory regularity. Arrive, complete 8 hours with full concentration to circumvent having to do anything else. If overtime was offered, he would take it. He could use the money and he could really use the avoidance.
Cherrie missed every detail about him. The way his lips tightened when he struggled to suppress the emergence of an embarrassing emotion, the curl of his abnormally tiny ears. She missed reading oddly assembled emails of streaming thought with haplography abounding in every word that naturally carried two s’s or two r’s. She missed looking into his eyes and finding truth when he couldn’t seem to find the words. She even missed rescuing him from the catastrophe of his own hair-brained schemes. His disasters were always unintended, like a child whose body has outgrown the reach of their common sense.
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