Today I have been accused of being mean, a bitch, arrogant, hateful, spiteful, venomous, emotionally distant, uncaring, depressing, unloving, unduly harsh, insensitive, and indecisive to the point of driving others to suicide. By all means, post a comment if I left something out.
Having come to rest, I no longer date. Apparently it’s all in my past now. It’s not that I don’t want to. Oh no, in fact I can’t think of a better way to while away a Saturday night.
The awkward hope of small talk while you wait for the movie to start, like the time you walked for an hour to meet someone for a first date, straight from work, because you didn’t want to presume to ask to be picked up.
But no apparently this stationary life has only room for deciding to end things, no futures, carefully chosen words because I know you but I don’t trust you.
It’s all said and done and dead. It’s all death and decay and wartime. The end of the affair, you know.
And I thought about internet dating. Not as an option, of course, if nothing else I haven’t the energy. I thought about all the people out there who hopefully posted up their thirty second spot, a picture, their turn on and offs. And it all seemed so hopeful, every fly has its pile of shit.
It’s sweetness and light and sugar and spice. It’s everything nice and held open doors and intimate dinners. A nation of two, you know.
And tonight his hand may lie between the two firm pale hillocks of her kindly bosom, but it’s the chronically uncreative dinner-and-a-movie followed by breathless new exploration that seems most enviable.
God save me from comfortable intimacy.
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