Game of thorns

From the corner of your eye you can see her; she stares at you, she’s talking, saying something about what happened to her earlier in the week, always been talkative, this one. But you drift apart as soon as she opens her mouth, you think about the constipation you had yesterday, she knows you’re not listening but she has learnt to live with divided attention when it comes to you. You tell yourself you should be listening but you’d rather not, so you choose to look at the beard that just walked in, and you wonder what you have to do to get a beard like that. Whatever you do you don’t look back at her, you don’t meet her eyes because what you have to say will be a little difficult for both of you to handle. Now she’s quiet.  You sneak a peek towards her direction tactfully as you lift the glass to sip the fizzy drink. The afternoon light illuminates the table in which you sit, just enough to catch her face, this face that is in quiet conflict with itself. You can read her thoughts; she can’t figure out if this spontaneous gesture excites her or scares her, you called her to lunch today without her asking you to. You haven’t talked for two days but now you’d like to talk, discuss the way forward, is how you put it, clearly a shoe has been dropped here. You have come to a decision that you might regret and someone will get hurt today. Goddamn it why can’t you just get it over with? Tell her you fool.

You inhale deeply; you hold your breath for as long as you can and then you let it out, slowly you place your elbows on the table, you cross your fingers to stop them from fiddling with themselves.

You’re about to tell her now, and then, like clockwork she starts talking again, even the waiter at your table doesn’t stop her. You suddenly get the urge to grab that waiter by the collar, (Eddie Murphy accent) “You gotta get me out of here man, please.” Her big anticipating eyes are like a thorn in your chest. In the distance of your thoughts you can still hear her voice, maybe she’s figured it out now; she’s not stupid my friend, but you don’t want her to figure it out; this was your battle, a test of your courage. You open your mouth but you can’t find the right words for this, instead, “You look amazing today.” She smiles from the corner of her mouth; you can see her effort to force the smile. She knows.

You bring your eyes back to the large window beside you, she thinks you are looking at the family outside there, chewing on pieces of pizza, she thinks you are picturing you and her and your kids, it became clear to her very quickly that you liked to spend most times dreaming about your future, she fell for one with ambition. But no, you are looking at your reflection, your almost fading reflection. What have you become? You are about to go back on your word, you had said you would stand naked in a blizzard for her, now you feel less of a man because you couldn’t handle the whole arrangement, also because you lack a beard on your face. The words you spoke to her the first time you held her close, the words that she said to you, now they’re coming back to haunt you, like echoes of kettle drums. It’s water under a bridge now really.

Why did you love her in the first place, if at all you did, why? Perhaps it’s because she was there when you were a lonely heart. When the other one that you really loved left you for a photogenic case of piercings called Chris that could also pass as a fashion model. Because she was there to save you from your endless imbibing of liquor just so you could sleep. That’s the only reason you loved her. Now you’re bored out of your wits, not that there is any form of discord between you two, you’d just rather talk to a wall.

The skies above begin to close, the blue disappears into the darkness of the clouds, and you start to walk her back home, holding her hand doesn’t make sense to you anymore. A cold breeze swirls dried leaves across the path in which you walk. You will not tell her, not now. You will put your many thoughts down on paper because that’s where you find your voice. Maybe someone else would have had the guts to say it out loud, but not you. Dating a writer is after all, a thorny issue.

The downside
The downside

You’re all thinking that this photographer is going soft right? It’s just one of those days today. Writing has become a little real now for me and my good chum Mike Laria, anaa deadly blogger over at  .We’ve decided to throw our names at BAKE and see how that goes, you can expect us at your door asking for votes soon.


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