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What I gave the Artboy to read the other night:
Stupid little girls dressed like an MTV photo shoot push past me in the "R" section of Newbury Comics, talking loudly about how pissed their moms are going to be. Sadly, I don't hear for what. I silently roll my eyes, feeling the instant distatse for them boil up inside of me. I look at their knit cap-covered heads and wonder if I looked and sounded that stupid at 13. I hope not.
Over the course of the afternoon, I battle with instant distaste several times: for the girl working in the Mass. Army Navy store who tells me the shoes I want are out of stock in my size; for the annoying and overbearing man in Berks who wants Docs just like mine for his...girlfriend? daughter? I never figure out which; for the people who stand in my way outside, unnecessarily taking up all of the sidewalk, leaving me stranded and running to catch up with my friends. I am bitchy because I am hungry and it's freezing out. I want to go home. I begin to develop instant distaste for the people I came with. When I start to hate our waiter at Uno's because he tells me the Pizza Skins can't be made without onions, I realize I am carrying a lot of pent up anger and frustration and anxiety, just waiting for a place to go.
Finally, later, at home, I have chilled out. A lot. I have eaten dinner and raised my blood sugar level, monumentally and instantly improving my mood. Jim goes to Marshfield, leaving us alone in the house. He finishes the joint he had started smoking earlier in Harvard Square and lays down next to me on the floor, where I am watching Bugs Bunny.
I lean my head against his shoulder. He puts his arm around me, tracing the edge of my face with his hand. I catch his finger with my teeth and hold it there in my mouth, playing lazily around it with my tongue as Bugs finds himself at the end of Elmer Fudd's gun. I can feel his heartbeat speed up under my head. He pulls his finger away and leans over, brushing my hair back from my ear. "Hey," he says softly, "do you wanna go upstairs?"
In his room, I sit down on the bed, nonchalantly straightening out his covers as he turns on the stereo, putting his new CD on quietly. He crosses the room and pushes me back on the bed, kissing me. Although he's a good eight inches taller than me, I have found a way to make myself fit against him just right, bringing all of the correct body parts into contact. I've practiced a lot. This night is no exception. He looks at me and smiles. "I want to pull myself inside you right now, to hold on to you so tight that I get right inside, to occupy all of you."
My earlier tension melts away as my mind becomes more concerned with how to quickly and efficiently removce all of my clothes and his and see what I can do to help him accomplish his goal.
Something isn't right, though. Once, he tells me that he wants to turn up the heat, and although he never leaves the room, he does pull away from me in an efffort to go. Twice, he sits up to get a drink of water. Finally, he lays back down, rests his head on my stomach and goes to sleep. To SLEEP. Eight thirty at night, my pheremones are going insane, and he wants to take a NAP? What can I say? My ego is bruised.
It's not distaste that surfaces this time. This bitter concoction is made up of poisoned desire, of anger and frustration, of disappointment and sadness. Pretty soon, it's just the sadness that remains. It overwhelms me, finally causing me to extricate myself from his hold and leave the room. I do not want him to wake up and find me crying.
My head, once again, is spinning. I can see now that the supressed frustration and anxiety in my life has one cause, and it's about 6' 3" and sleeping in the other room. Somewhere, I know that love shouldn't be this difficult. I think about him sleeping so peacefully and obliviously and wonder--is this the last night I'll fall asleep in his arms, my favorite place to sleep? Is tomorrow the last morning I'll wake up here? Am I just fooling myself by thinking that we really have a chance of making this work? Should I just face facts and admit to myself that as much as he may LIKE me, he's never going to LOVE me, and in the end, he won't really WANT me to be his girlfriend, although he'll admit none of that to either of us? Too many questions.
I've been told repeatedly, "Jennifer, don't make it so easy for him. If he things he's going to lose you, he'll straighten out and do the right thing." But what I'm not ready for, what I'm afraid of, is that he'll think he's going to lose me and just let me go.
Suddenly, I find myself wishing I was a 13-year-old grunge princess, trying to look cool while buying CD's with my allowance. My life was so much easier then. At least, that's the way it looks from here.
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