Friday
I am annoyed with The Scorpio. It is not logical to be annoyed so I’m in an awkward spread-eagle with my brain rattling out all the rational reasons why I have no right to be pissed and my emotions whining that they deserve a little attention now and then and, by the way, my brain is not the boss of them.
We talk on the phone and I try to explain how more than one of my personalities can operate at once. But, no. He just wants to know if we’re okay now.
“But are we okay now? When I come over tomorrow, will you be throwing darts at me? You got that Irish temper. You know how you are.” He proceeds to lecture me on the subject of how-we-can’t-control-life-and-so-when-something-doesn’t meet-our-expectations-we should-simply-adjust.
“You’re lecturing me.” I say.
“No. I’m not lecturing you. I just want to know if we’re okay now. I mean if you were coming to see me and knew I’d be upset, what would you do?”
I’m reasonably fine by this point, almost fine. Just enough pissed off left that I can’t resist the sound of trepidation and anxiety in his voice. Oh, the devil in my head says, this is fun!
“I’d come over. You know why?”
“Why?,” he asks miserably.
“Because I don’t have that stupid Y chromosome, so I’d just deal with it. And I don’t think there will be darts, you know, but we can’t control everything, so there might be darts.”
“Come on,” he begs, “are we alright?”
“Yeah. We’re alright.”
Saturday
I sleep in until 7:00. Shower, shave legs, put on makeup, find something reasonably alluring that doesn’t involve underwear with the elastic hanging off and get dressed. I air the place out so there’s no tobacco smell, and go to the studio to work on my new piece.
9:50 he knocks on the door. I open it and hold my hands out, palms face up. He stares at them. I pull open my sweater for inspection. He stares at me uncomprehendingly. I notice his eyes are very bloodshot.
“No weapons. No darts.”
“Oh. No sleep.”
Best friend’s birthday party. Tequila going down by the bucket and no sleep.
I attempt conversation as I pump coffee into him. Just as I'm beginning to suspect actual brain death, he kisses me.
I attempt conversation again and he pushes me down on the sofa.
Oh, I think, it’s like that. We’re having sex. Not conversation. Just sex. I consider the facts at hand as his hand is sliding up under my camisole.
1. He’s been a little insensitive and emotionally unavailable just lately.
2. I figure he owes me a few niceties at this point.
3. When he’s too tired to remember his own name, he’s still fabulous in bed.
4. I like having sex with him. A lot.
5. No sense wasting the good underwear.
and really,
6. A man is just a woman with mutant chromosomes. They start out fine in the initial stages but then nature blunders and issues the Y chromosome. Still they’re kind of big and sweet every once in a while and the physical mistake of nature is pretty much a gas, if you just overlook the blockheaded behavior.
so,
7. Ok.
8. This isn’t so bad, thinking like a man. And it leaves you time to buy a new red Dirt Devil vacuum, have lunch with your best friend and get back to the studio for the day.
