She’s looking at her daughter. Tiny fingers gliding across the mini screen as they move digital pieces on a puzzle. Completely unaware of the world around her; for her, the screen is her world. Her daughter is *her* world. She wasn’t ready to have a kid. Nothing was in line the way The Big Picture foretold, then again, when does it ever?
She thinks of the father. He’s there, but not. He’s gone. He’s present. He loves her but doesn’t know how to stay. For his daughter, not the mother. She wasn’t in his Big Picture. Neither was he in hers. But, like his father before him…
She looks the way you’d look if I was able to be looking at you, and not an avi. A camera. She moves her mouth in that way you know the person talks to themselves out loud because they have so much to say. But at least look smart doing it. Because there is a difference in upturned corners of the mouth. Her hair flounces the way I know yours would because you turn your head a lot while speaking. You’re the woman in the kind of movie where the lens is showing her having it all, but it’s always just out of reach. Love. Loneliness. Financially beneficial role in said career.
The epitome of Soft Beauty, Hard Loving.
70 minutes. That is the length of time defined as a “morning out” or “afternoon plans.” 70 minutes is your window to hit me up for a random adventure. Otherwise you’ll have to settle for evening excursions. And you’re “time sensitive” from 5:30pm-7pm for your own ’70 minutes.’
70 minutes is an average date. Morning out. Afternoon plans. Evening excursions. 70 minutes is more than enough to give/it’s all you have to give.
Look. I’m VERY attracted to you. And I want you. Not just in a strictly physical way. We’re the “this is what ‘great’ looks like. And I want to be sleeping with you. But I also want to want to wait for the possibility for marriage. And I don’t want to wait. Because I like sleeping with my partner. I’m sorry. It’s a pure, physical and emotional exchange. And it gives me so much that I never thought I’d never need. And I want this with you. But I don’t want to wait and waste this connection. Maybe we should kiss. Just once. And then head to the alter to do what will inevitably end up happening anyway; us married. Because we’re already on a great connection the purity of it would translate into GREAT sex. And I can tell you think about me like that. That you want to lay on my chest while I’m playing with your hair, and we’re just talking. The organic scene it is, because we are. Organic.
I’ve been thinking about the alternate me’s that are with the women I’ve genuinely wanted to date. Or if the ones I wanted to be strictly casual with is still sleeping with me while we look for other partners.
I’ve been wondering if the ones I wanted to be long-term with and I have been dating for 13 years. Best friends; why change what we have. The mother of my first child. The one I should have been breaking up with now so my thirties were spent on my second “great love.”
And then I thought, “what if men do this because they want to ‘try on’ what married life could be like.” Am I one of those guys, and that’s why nothing ever works out? Because it’s not supposed to. Not just for my outward appearance but perhaps I was one of the chosen sacrifices of the population that’s “alone.” Perhaps when I said this you immediately thought of some movie/show that depicts this. And that’s the visual representation that I’m attempting to manifest into words. The buildup of Lorelei and Luke, but you’re actual lovers.
Been thinking about the ones that cheated on me and I stayed like a “deer in headlights” accepts death. And the ones I cheated on in revenge but kept it a secret because the longevity of the secret is sweeter “petty” than throwing it in their face right away. Sauce, marinating in the back of the cabinet. Warm, smooth, tangy at the back of the throat. The sheer pettiness of it so savory. It’s a reveal at a family gathering as one of those blows they’ll never come back from. Because she killed you, and you wanted her dead too.
There’s a girl I met at the age of 19 who was 17. She told me she had had three successive miscarriages and at her current age still wanted to get married and have a baby, but get pregnant first. I wonder if the me who went through wth it has a son or two, or a combo of older daughter-young son or older son-younger daughter. Is he happy? Is she the 13-year relationship I mentioned above? Did he develop a substance problem; drinking like he said he never would because of his stepfather. Or marijuana to make life tolerable.
Perhaps this is what deja vu is; lives you’re living on another timeline finally catching up to you. Maybe that’s why, for some men, the feel of a woman changes. For others, it’s home. Maybe, on another timeline, she was home. How do you go back to a place you’ve never been?
My brother was an auxiliary cop in our neighborhood for about 8 years. The neighborhood is “safe” but has illegal dealings. The kind that could get you killed, especially if you’re someone affiliated with the cops. He sealed my fate in this neighborhood by damning me in the life of having to be a target retaliation. And I seriously think my father died IN those dealings, and I’m going to die for being associated with folks against who’s in those dealings. I.E. cops, and them thinking I am one. And even if I move, the target won’t. I’m safe nowhere. Im scared I’m going to leave a child behind because of this, causing a cycle in my bloodline. That a child has to be sacrificed so needlessly. Word around a neighborhood spreads video game fast once a mission is barely three seconds into being done and the entire galaxy knows about it. Wherever I go, that chatter follows. I’m dead, and yet, I don’t have the courage to “end it” before suffering the fate of my father. Because I want to be the one to beat this. Because I deserve this. To love. And be loved. And love a child who will deserve to be loved. I am better than my fate.
Look this is gonna sound really stupid but I honestly feel like I’m responsible for my father’s death. Like I KNOW it’s impossible since I was in the womb. But if my father hadn’t been killed I wouldn’t have had to grow up with a mom that stopped working since 1985. She’s needed me for so long but it’s honestly a crutch because I’m the last of what my father could have given her. And she resents me for it. So she manipulates the situation by not telling me and, in turn, being forced to tell my older brother- whom she would just LOVE to tell all to- that she hates me even more for not letting her tell him that he’s essentially her favorite son. Because my mother was so in love with my father that she HATES that he had to be able to provide for me and lost his life doing so. Maybe because she WANTED him home with the kids, to be a FATHER, so now she hates me EVEN MORE because I stopped her from being a “career woman.” My mom- a big woman- wanted to be Rikki Lake. I took her away from Rikki Lake-esque shine….
….my mother really fucking hates me.
And do you wanna know the worst part? I will end up taking care of her at the end, still wishing my mother loved me.