When I think of her, I wait for that feeling from the first time -- that bitter sadness rising in my throat. It doesn't come. The closest thing is the jealousy of knowing that sooner or later her passions will be directed at another. And the confusion at how she romanticized our breakup more openly than any aspect of our relationship, her magnum opus laid out in public to receive the trite sympathies of outsiders. Sure, I have my own appetite for the maudlin, but there are limits.
And my need to flirt, entice and fuck. Is it just an elaboration of my need to know that I can displace her from my mind? Does that matter? She's left her mark and all I can do is paint it over. That's what she wanted, after all.
Clouds like thin, bumpy stucco this morning, scraped across the flat blue winter sky.
posted on Saturday, December 11, 2010
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