Good on Paper

Everyone should be as lucky as to to hear just one of our conversations. Just one. They're the perfect mix of sarcasm, humor and general smart-assedness that makes it not only almost near impossible for others to join the conversation, but also jealous that they cannot. This is why we are perfect.
We know that we can do this; we know that on crowded underground trains when the Suits are pretending to listen to thier iPods that they have in actuality removed one bright white earbud and begun to hear our rediculous yet deadpan banter. We know that the couple across the way who can't seem to stop touching each other has upped thier physical response in mock competition. We know that they know that they will lose.
And here, we are so good. At restaraunts, waiters are overly attentive to us, they love us, love what we have to say. We tip them exorbitantly because they are right. They are right to think they wish they had what comes so easily to us, to wish that they had a partner with which they could so easily converse, because, like us, this would make thier relationships valid. We are so awesome.
You should hear us. You should hear us speak at length on some foreign film or the worth of trail mix. On turning the life of Ashlee Simpson into a musical. On how easy it would be to sneak cocaine past security at the airport. About how neither of us does cocaine. It doesn't matter much, we're always just the same. Perfect stresses on syllables, lavishly peppering sentances with slightly archaic adjectives, mixing million dollar words with artfully placed modern profanity. The occasional laugh to mark the moment when one of us has indeed outdone the other, when the topic will have to change.

While there is daylight there is this. When there are still beers on the bar. When the crowd is still mingling around us in anticipation of what we'll say next. When I have not yet pressed my lips into the crook of his neck to make him speechless. When he has yet to place his palm under my t-shirt onto the bare skin of my back.

Here I have no words. I can never find any that seem quite right, seem as perfect. and caught in my throat, I let the ones I'd like to say mingle with those I never could and none of them come; I relent to listening to his halted breath, feel his hands grip me and wonder what it means and always fail to ask.

In the morning, there is daylight again, and blinking, yawning.


He says it in a way that does not have the gentle up and down of a smile, but this sort of pregnant defeat. as if he wishes not to speak it. I too would like to say something else.




charles.bukowski.costanza said...

dude, that shit is tight i really like it.

and, glad to see you here in my world, the world of a "sort of pregnant defeat." welcome.

charles.bukowski.costanza said...

oh, my preggo defeato (PD-for-me-oh) is an ongoing, life-cycle sort of thing. you know.

Milkshake said...