p>“I fishhooked this guy.” She was boisterous. Had exotic eyes. She formed her index finger into a fishhook and made an exaggerated gesture to the right.

“I totally fishhooked this guy. He hit my friend Nettie. Was making her cry. Hit this other friend of mine who’s a lesbian. And he hit me.”

“What the fuck?”

It was her first fight and she was 20. She was telling me how she’d kicked some poor guys ass.

She was sitting across from me. We were sitting indian style, facing eachother. We were totally in eachother’s space.

“He called my friend Nettie a ‘dirty nigger’. He called her a ‘dirty nigger’” She leaned all the way in towards me. Our noses brushed.

Enacting what she screamed at him: “What did you say, fucker!?!”

“And then he pushed me back and called me a bitch. And he was wearing a button-up dress shirt, so I grabbed him.”

With both hands she grabbed my t-shirt just beneath the collar and pulled me close towards her. “WHAT’D YOU SAY FUCKER!!!”

“Then he tried to push me away again and his palm hit my chin. He hit my fucking chin!” She gestured wildly, shaking her head back and forth. “So I just grabbed him.”

She forced her index finger in my mouth and fishhooked my cheek. “I didn’t know what I was doing!”

She holds her hands up like claws. “I just grabbed him and fishooked him.” She fishhooked my cheek again. “And I just pulled.” And my head followed her pull halfway to the floor.

She pulled her finger out and kept gesturing with her hands. “He called her a ‘dirty nigger’ and he made my friend, the other girl, the lesbian cry. And we were pushing him back against his car cause he kept pushing us and he finally got in his car but his window was down and he reached out and hit Nettie.”

“When I saw that I just punched him.”

She rears back and socks me between the chin and mouth almost busting my lip. “…and I kept hitting him.”

She swung at me twice more. The second one barely glanced, and I leaned back out of the way of the third.

“We were all sitting there hitting him. Kicking the shit out of him and our friend Eddie was beating the shit out of his car with his hands! And he broke the fuckin tail light! Eddie broke the tail light!”

She was holding my hands in between us now. “I’ve never been in a fight before two weeks ago. And I’m 20!”

She fishhooked me in the mouth again. “I totally fishhooked him!”

Only the weak use true love as an excuse; only the weak would use true love.

David:

She called again. You’re not surprised. Of course she wanted something. Does the devil never wag temptuous bits without deviance in hand?

That’s an unfair accusation.

We all want something, but I have less tolerance – and more hate – for her, and for any sense of want surrounding her.

So odd to hate so much one so close.

She invited me to a mutual acquaintance’s party. I’d make an appearance regardless, but I asked why me, as opposed to her boyfriend (or whatever the fuck he is). He may not be such a bad guy. He just happens to be fucking someone whose skull I’d enjoy beating with a hammer.

I’m sure they’re fucking because our dance goes like this: I spend time with someone, anyone, and she accuses me of fucking them (truth is irrelevant), so that she will not feel guilty of fucking whoever she’s fucking.

I do not care, and have spent many hate-filled moments not caring, and managed to go several weeks not knowing who it was I did not care about.

She’d rather I go, than him, because I’ve been her artistic backbone, I can talk for her if she gets confused, I give her confidence. But I bristle that she expects any service when I’d as soon as not talk to her, ever, again.

So odd to hate so much one so close.

I am tired of being used.

She would say the same, and certainly, just as we all want many things from many, I have used her. Perhaps, though, it’s my indination, a self-inflated sense of quality, an elitist misconception, but I do not think I have ever used anyone in the ways I have been used.

My kindness has been plundered.

I am planning to go so I can express my cruelty, make her feel the sad, pitiful, little girl I have always known she is. Instead of wishing my love might save her, I desire to damn her to a lifetime of tears.

I have such bile in me now!

Scatting over untalented fetishists and burlesqueries

—-

Tabitha’s hair is a presumptuos red, daring, somewhat stuck-up, but only as much as the girl herself, so despite the shocking, deep red, I have forgotten it isn’t actually her natural hair colour.

May’s hair is much more… shoulder length and brown. And the two, chatting over coffee, scatting over untalented fetishists and burlesqueries, make a very grounded pair.

Says May, “The ‘only burlesque troupe in Dallas’ is totally awful.”

“It’s true. We stood there making fun of them.”

“They should’ve done more yoga.”

“They were fat and disgusting.”

“They could’ve stood some Proud Warrior.”

“Their high kicks weren’t very high.”

“Some Downward Dog would’ve helped, too.”

I do not know May as well, but elitist witticisms fall from Tabitha’s mouth as if they were gold coins, and she, a fairy tale heroine:

“This guy was wearing gloves, and looked totally ridiculous. I was rude: ‘My friend wears gloves to keep the demons in his fingers. What’s your excuse?’ Then May dragged me away.”

I can’t say it started innocently. She’s attractive. And we were both married.

---

How many times had we done this? Dinner, drinks, fascinating conversation, her smile.

I can’t say it started innocently. She’s attractive. And we were both married. And our marriages, the slow, cancerous deterioration, and poisonous spouses were common ground.

And the margaritas, and the conversation, and the laughs. Isn’t that how they say it should happen? After you’ve wasted the first years of youth pursuing storybook love, and you take your measure, isn’t that how they say it should happen?

When I was younger I never believed in love.

We still meet monthly. A cocktail has loosened our inhibitions. We’re relaxed. The conversation comes comfortably. A smile, or a gesture, her eyes will catch my attention, and the restaurant noise, the neighbouring guests, even the story she’s telling falls away, and I am filled with the position of lovers, no. 4: An urge wells up to burst the lovers chest, an instinct to kiss the other.

Soon it passes.

A thousand reasons why and why not. Justified by strategies for later, when I walk her to her car, meet her at her house. But these do not matter.

As with all early positions of lovers, it is the hesitation that is of import. As if the bellows of the heart suddenly quiet, and the fire retreats back into the coals where it consumes them from within.