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By chris Date: 2004 May 10 Comment on this Work [[2004.05.10.00.37.4622]] |
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I find myself making mental lists these days. The cons: You won't dance - no matter how much you drink (and you drink a lot). Last night it was killing me sitting there at the bar while people were out on the dance floor gettin' down to the poor-cousin-of-Stevie-Ray's blues being played way too loudly to just LISTEN to. I finally went down there myself but left and came back to you because (a) dancing alone strikes me as a bit goofy and (b) I felt guilty for even considering flirting with the waitress who looked like she had too much time on her hands. And the movies you like make me cringe. Somehow I made it through the entire 2 hours and 11 minutes of computer-generated special affects yesterday that passed for a film - and without bolting from the theater for a single cigarette. You gripped my hand tighter during the action sequences - pretty much the entire movie - and were clearly on the edge of your seat. So it wasn't a total waste of money. I was also on the edge of my seat, but for a different reason: I was hoping to fall onto the floor where I could hide for the rest of the night - away from the unceasing flashing and crashing on the screen. There are more things - and I'm sure you have just as many about me, too. I think all those years of marriage did a number on you. They did a number on me. I have no business dating right now. But I don't hesitate to call our thing what it is. For your part you seem to avoid that because you think I'll hurt you. And with my newfound player-wannabe ways I don't do a very good job of assuring you I won't a lot of the time. But the pros are there too - in spades. The sex is better than I ever thought it could be - and then even better than that. Your powers as a lover are simply stratospheric. You send me home two hours past my bedtime, weak in the knees and tired - but happy. Very happy. There aren't enough beads in the Rosary for the prayers of contrition we by all rights should be saying. We make out (or at least attempt it) on I-25 at 75 miles an hour, Guns n' Roses' "Night Train" blaring out the windows, desert sun deliriously beating down (already 83 in the shade, 99 in the sun). And you can cook - you want to make me lasagna. You can balance a checkbook, make a budget, and you've had the same job for years. Plus - and how can I overlook this? - you don't laugh at my cheesy temporary tattoos that say "Sideshow" (with scary-looking clown) and "Representin' La Raza." You know I'm not representing anyone but myself these days - and doing a pretty piss-poor job at that. You make me laugh. You warn me that you're a cusser, then proceed to say "freakin'" three times in a single sentence. You get upset but not too upset when the right kind of beer and the wrong kind of music brings back my recent past with the suddenness of a Texas blue norther in the fall. I always come back to how you look at me at the door when I leave your apartment at the end of the night - utterly beautiful and a little lost in the light of the computer monitor. That look is why I'm still here. I could love you so, so easily. Sometimes I think I do. You have your own reasons, but locating them is a bit like finding WMDs in the desert. Before me you dated construction workers who chewed tobacco. I doubt they saw many Woody Allen movies - or would, for that matter, even if they were paid union-scale for it. Who cares if we're both just slumming - it's the shit while it lasts, isn't it? |