I am
overtired this evening, but the mere thought of crawling back into that
miserable hospital bed, with its brown lamination, turns my stomach filled with
his cooking and food preparation, as I wait there every morning vibrating with
his sex in my nose, wanting to make love to him in the morning sunlight, like
the blind wife of the chief of police in John Gardner’s Sunlight Dialogues, flashing back to the pleasurable intimacy of
her worn out marriage. We’re both angry, he and I, and I’m learning a bit too
much about what life would be with a black man of his caliber, and as I’ve
already intimated, it isn’t a fine caliber, but rather that of a yoked plow
horse, blotting out everything else in my enfeebled brain, my poor weary mind
once perfectly happy to be a miserable angry spinster flirting with the
language of incitement for my audience. I’m pissed enough at the moment to turn
us both in, screwing myself at least five ways to Sunday, causing him a job
loss he cannot afford, because I can’t take it, but even if I do this, I’m not
getting over his explorations of my body anytime soon. I never said no, and he’s
having a difficult time with the geyser steaming out of my fault lines, kissing
him finally, although why he accepted it if I am getting carried away signals he is also vulnerable, but I did not swoon.
Curiosity. “You used me,” he objected, but didn’t he do the same?
If I
could kick him out on his fucking ass I’d be fine, but if I continue to
repress, and if he continues to stay, I am already half gone, mostly gone,
while he reads me through his planet cycles of astrological forces in a
language I don’t comprehend. You’re
nasty. Who would want that? Ah. This, dear readers, I understand, my nasty
selfish temperament, almost echoing that of Trudy Richardson, building manager
nemesis to whom he was introduced. What a success of cultural appropriation, as
I am drawn in small mincing efforts to compare the vacant departure of my stepmother to Death at a Funeral, which I believe is burrowed in my archives, a comedy actually filling in the lines of life. This was not the case for my father's third wife. All her son did was pop champagne. "She was a nice person," this nasty boy said, only here once to upgrade an old Sony large monitor computer. At the very least, mine and my father's ambivalent antagonism fleshed out another embittered invalid who suffered an excruciating death; in any case, I'm otherwise shut down, wondering how desperate I am to find satiation. Even if he winds up turning another leaf, I am horridly taut, worn out with it. Sad, I suppose, fallen so far down the ladder that a black man without his girl can't finish what he started, sadder still I'm better off but could care fucking less, me and my matches not in heaven.
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