Don’t miss you at all

“As I sit and watch the snow, Fallin’ down, I don’t miss you at all, I hear children playin’ laughin’ so loud, I don’t think of your smile, So if you never come to me, You’ll stay a distant memory”—Norah Jones

I’m playing with fire: isoparrafin oils coating my hands, I’m tossing the torch with both ends lit, hand to hand combat as heat grazes my skin. But… but…but… it’s only the first level, the epidermis, being scorched, right?

I’m going to diner with A. You know A, C’s fraternal twin brother, A. Yep, A. It’s not like anything is going to happen… we will meet, share a meal, have some drinks, a few laughs, maybe he’ll pay but with my luck we’ll split the bill, Wellsfargo will weep, quick embrace church-style, an awkward goodbye. Life ambles on. My trouble always arises when I try to predict the unpredictable—i.e. the actions of others.

I don’t know why I said yes. It’s that undeniable curiosity, the potential for a great story. Kinda like why I have a one-night-stand on my bucket list because I wanna see how I will react. I’m forever interested in the aftermath vs. the actual occurrence. But then again I’m stopped by this notion that everyone has an STI. So there’s that.

I just don’t know how I feel about seeing a version of the face I slept with every night. Yea, I said it. Fight me.

I’ve come to the place where I’m indifferent to C. Though I’m drawn back to the nostalgia of the possibility that he represented, by the grace of God I realize I want better. Again, it boils down to curiosity. Why do you want to have dinner with me? Why do you want to reconnect with me? Why is that even appealing?

If there’s one thing about me, it’s that I satisfy my curiosity.

I also wonder if there will be some surprise gorilla attack where they will both show up and I’ll have to pretend there’s no elephant in the room (like that last weepy, vulnerable email that I wrote where for the first time in my life I put it all out there, laid all my shit bare, down to the white meat). *shudders*. And if that happens what the hell am I supposed to say? You know I always think I’m going to act like the leading lady in those situations but inevitably I shrink to a background extra. Speachless.

All these new developments are needed distractions to keep me from thinking about Baltimore, and how I asked him out for a second date. And how he said… no. And now I have this egg-splatter on my face, dried overnight in the elements, hard to scrape off. I’ve officially chased him.

Oh, youth! The mistakes we make, the hyperbole we tell in hindsight.

I don’t know when, I do know where. *sigh* I’ll keep you posted.


Diced Pineapples

“And I ain’t no connoisseur but I’m kinda sure you will admire my taste, But before the sun graze ya, I’m tryin’ to see how deep you are, And believe me shorty I ain’t talking about no intimate conversation, I wanna see if I can make you reach things unobtainable, When I peek into your nature”—Wale(verse)

I don’t know where to start… After-hours work functions are always interesting. I’ve been with my company five years. One thing about D.C., we’re a transient city. In my tenure I’ve moved building four times, I’ve changed departments twice, I’ve lost co-workers, I’ve gained co-workers. Through it all I’m contactly surprised at what people reveal when they get a few drinks in them.

Granted at after-hours functions there’s a level of acceptable inappropriateness. There’s a thin line between he just looked at my ass to he just mentioned oral sex loudly, and publicly.

So we’re at the Nats game and a new member to the team, and the company, remarks to me and my girl D about the player’s hype song as they come up to bat. Players like Harper and Desmond walk on the field to some pretty hood music—considering the venue. This is understandable considering they’re young, rich, and famous. They’re whole aura revolves around making a statement.

Toward the bottom of the 7th inning, Newbie proceeds to ask us what our theme songs would be—making suggestions such as Spent It or Cashin’ Out. I’m quick to answer with the song, I Like by Young Swift. While D is still thinking, Newbie blurts out—I’d walk in to Diced Pineapples.


Lemme tell sumthin’ to you… when I say I wasn’t ready, that’s an understatement. D continues to look puzzled because she hasn’t heard the song. So I’m sitter there with the “you eat ass” face looking like a major ho and he looks like the “Here’s Johnny” pervert. His wedding ring shinning as he gestured emphatically. I turn my face around muttering to myself aloud: you aint ready, I aint ready, diced pineapples *rapid head shakes*.

Not wanting to be out of the loop, D begins to look up the lyrics on her phone. Soft puff of “oh, Oh, OH!” as the words get more—specific.

He on the other hand is trying to convince us of the poetry in Wale’s verse. “Yo, yo, but Wale he said I wanna do foreplay so long you call it five”. Oh yes folks, WA-LE, the modern day Marlowe.  “There were some great lines in that song—the whole first verse for example”.

Lines maybe, appropriateness definitely not.

Adamant of his accuracy, he pulls up the song on his phone, from his iMusic favorites probably, and shoves his iPhone right into D’s face—thrusting motions like a sparring dildo. “Listen you gotta hear it to know what I’m talking about, the lyrics alone don’t do the song justice”.

Justice was served Newbie, served on a flaming platter of “you’re a freak”. These are one of those times when you should just quit while you’re ahead. By the time he finished assaulting us with fresh produce it was the bottom of the 8th inning and we had, had enough. Quick exit stage left followed by a thorough recap of the previous innings antics. No baseball discussed on that walk of shame back to the metro, the game long forgotten as we swapped notes of the uncomfortable, awkwardness of too close proximity with a known stranger.

Just for future reference, know your limits at company events, lest you want to be crowned with an unfortunate nickname.

Diced pineapples indeed and I didn’t even get dinner first. The nerve! Humph!


No sympathy when shouting out is all you know, Behind your lies I can see the secrets you don’t show, We don’t know how you’re spending all of your days, Knowing that love isn’t here, You see the pictures but you don’t know their names, ‘Cause love isn’t here, You took something perfect and painted it red.—Daniel Merriweather

Have you noticed we don’t slow dance anymore? To grind is appropriate, to slow dance absurd. We are too controlled to get lost in the melody, the gentle sway of synchronized hips, whispered breath as we rest cheek to cheek. That would require you knowing my name, a heightened awareness of my scent, gratefulness for holding me in your arms and not just appreciation for my backside in your hands.

Maybe that’s why the first dance is so special at weddings. For the whole world to see he acknowledges her as forever precious, she stands unguarded yet wholly protected. Between that moment, and the groom’s face when he sees his bride for the first time, that’s the only reason I attend weddings. Those two moments of unabashed love.

In the quest, we’ve lost that; lost the desire to be unwary, candid. We’ve taken something so perfect— the Monet of love and painted it red.

Love is the battle where we both end up with scars; no longer simple, no longer sought after, no longer won. We get into relationships, remain strangers, depart victims. It’s so interesting. At Paul C. Brunson’s It’s Complicated event, I kept thinking to myself how we (both genders) lost the reality of love.

Brunson said as much in his humor-laced tidbits of wisdom, but people weren’t really hearing him. High off drink, high off ambiance; we forgot the high of making lasting connections. It’s not that we don’t believe: men believe in love but are distracted by fancy merchandise; women believe in love but settle when they get tired of the struggle.

Love isn’t a consolation prize. It isn’t a second-best solution. Love is forever.

This isn’t the good woman vs. good man diatribe—this is the notion that the desire to love and be loved in return has lost the glamour it once held. Sure you still find your hopeless romantics wandering the streets, but too soon their candle burns out in desolation.

There’s only so long you can hold out hope before you’re tired of being the one holding the bride’s bouquet. The toss gets rather obvious when you’re the only one standing in the middle. As often as we spout #foreveralone, no one truly gives up the hunt. Hope’s a lonely bedfellow.

So where so we go from here? How do we again believe in love and the power of its might? Do we even want to? Or do we enjoy the new red splotches on a classic piece?

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