Drinking.
I'm drinking while I write this tonight, though it won't post until the morning, because today was a day for such things. I am wild in my own thoughts wrapped up in the terrible possibilities that come along with my own ill chosen words. "He's such a fucking cunt," was not where I expected the conversation to go and yet there it was. It hung in the air between us like a wet fart in a crowded elevator. Her jaw hung loose as she stared at me and my blood ran cold knowing that with that single line - with that word I so rarely use - that I had just begun a fight that would run all night. Oh and how it has raged. My, God, there have been tears streaming from beautiful blue eyes as she told me where I could expect to find my dick in the morning.
Riposte.
Our words formed a gulf deeper than the Mariana Trench which we filled with insults, recriminations, and threats of sexual embargoes. Our voices rose up and exploded like thunder as each tried to shout the other down. There are no winners here; we are all lost with pride dividing us.
Coule
Words are meaningless when she cries. Everything else falls apart as we cuddle next to each other on the couch. Whispered, "I'm sorry," escapes from our lips as we watch the news. Mike Huckabee has announced he's running for President of the United States. We listen to his speech and as the crowd goes wild she cups my chin in her hand and turns me to face her. "I'm sorry," she says, "you're right. He is a fucking cunt."
Yep. Please keep writing.
ReplyDelete