March 20, 2003
Cellular Level
Driving back to Mike's, listening to 'California Luv', the song that no doubt contributed to the death of Tupac. I am thinking. The moon is too bright, too full, and I wonder how far it is pulling my spirit from me.
He shared the first slice of coconut with me.
I do not understand myself. There is too much to understand. A woman is a woman, I can be as defiant as I like I am still going to cry about silly things and be compelled to make gooey sounds when I see children or puppies, even though we all know I am overly fond of neither.
Mike says that men are naturally adventurous, that they go out there and do their thing and they miss their girl, of course, but it doesn't take their focus away from what must be done.
My retort is brief.
"And the woman traditionally sits at home and pines."
"No." He counters. Aren't we gung ho about our jobs, our schooling, our something-other-than-him?
And yes, of course we are. But in the back of our mind, always in the back, threatening to overthrow the carefully fashioned confidence, is the thought of him. Just wishing that he was there.
What is even scarier to me is that he might be right, and this violent dependence is just me. Only me. I am the sad excuse for a woman instead of a woman just generally being sad.
Not so long ago we were curled up in bed, my tears long dry on my cheeks.
"Sometimes, there are things I want to say to you, but I am afraid because I don't want to sound insincere."
That's alright, dear. You just keep saving your sincerity for all things unpleasant.
astera at 12:18 p.m.