The Middle

A night on the couch, I didn't expect that.

There was NO hidden intention in my getting up to read a book.. Of course you took it as a personal insult, as if it was a maneuver of course you had to blame me for the situation, of course you had make this about my ineptitude.

You said I had unpredictable moods. Have you considered that I might just be a consequence of being a complete person (I remember you once said I was the most complete person you had met).

I agree with you completely, my moods do not always match yours: isn't that normal? Why is this surprising to you?

Anyway…as far as I am concerned, being stimulated by you outweighs your antagonism . This is all new to me, in a very strange way I feel like I am in love for the first time, but I like it, I like the process, I like being in it with you and I like the potential outcome it seems to have. I am ready to deal with impatience.

The Beginning

It started as a game. After sex and before sleep my mind drifted from one thought to the next until I stop on one and said it aloud,

`Tell me something about your mother.

He thinks all talking in bed is foreplay. Well, just because it's usually true does not mean it's always true.

`` Just one story. `` I say, `` Something good she did --or something bad.``

I touch his ribcage, it`s indented. Everyone's ribcage is indented of course--but his is more than most. He rolls closer and --seemingly without trying-- makes himself fit. I have no idea how he does that.

After a life-time of one too many arms I am happy, let's just leave it at that.

He whispers, `Which one you want to be--the good one or the bad one?

Who says you need to have things in common?

II

He's built like a Boxer--—the dog not the profession --although he looks like that also. His face is watchful, protective and a little sad. The actual word is doleful. He looks doleful. I don't say doleful because he won't know what it means. And I don't want him to feel bad about that.

Actually, aside from sex and take-out food choices, I don't know much about him.

III

I'm a professor of English. He works in support—what used to be called Janitorial. He fixes things; he has good hands. I`m not sure if he can read, but then again neither can my students. I assign books and they rent the movies and no, it does not count. The whole point of imagination is actually having one.

He loves me-- I think--he just doesn't know it yet.

IV

The next time it's not a random thought,

`Tell me about your dad. Is that manlier? Can you talk about your dad?`

He props himself up, puts a pillow behind his head and says, `Why don't you tell me a story about your mother."

He looks like an enormous six years old who's waiting for a story.

Who am I to disappoint him?

The End

On the subway this morning I saw an ad for The School of Practical Philosophy. The subtitle reads:

Who am I? What am I doing here? How can I be happy? Apparently the classes teach happiness--a bargain I'd say.

The car was also full of people: a young, young, a way too young boy wearing a big Versace Belt Buckle. He kept touching himself—his hair, his lips, other parts also. He kept looking at himself in the reflection. Other people looked at him also.

Next to him was a woman , mid sixties, (I hate knowing things like this, I wish everyone over thirty were still a blur of old.) This woman had soft skin, she seemed kind. No one looked at her.

Losing love is the hardest part. I forget how to live inside my own life--I become a tourist with a guide book, I only know certain expressions:

Excuse me please, but does anyone have a needle and thread? It appears that I'm in pieces.