December 6, 2002
Argyle
I am wearing pink underwear and pink argyle patterned socks and a baseball jersey and Mike's black track pants. My hands are cold from washing. My ears, mostly my right, are warm from conversation.
I am going to collect child support from him despite the fact that we are not married, and have no children. It is for the children that could've been.
He knows I'm emotionally dependent on him. He knows about passive aggressive behavior. He knows I don't mind the tempo. He knows.
I draped a pink scarf over my bed post and shoved a red ballpoint pen inside the hole it created.
Does this have some sort of metaphoric significance?
He was going to play me a lullaby but couldn't find the CD. Pantera and Cake followed, neither soothing me into slumber. He can never find the right CD. Not to mention the song.
I wonder, what was it going to be?
I'll ask tomorrow when we're eating goetta and eggs and drinking hot chocolate at one o'clock in the morning. I'll want to fall asleep in his arms.
But that's next week.
We talked for two hours. We only mentioned cartoons four times, a feat, surely, if ever there was one.
I want to be flowery and beautiful but tonight I am tired and bleary eyed and frustrated with circumstances, fashioned by my own hand, that permit me from being with him in the middle of every night.
Things won't change.
And that's a good thing.
Tonight, though, I'd like my bed to be twice as big and him hidden within it.
astera at 12:52 a.m.