Ask me five [inappropriately?] personal questions and I’ll answer them no matter what they are.
Walking down the dock felt natural. Finding no key in her pocket did not. She sighed, unable to understand how she could have forgotten something so simple. It felt like a holiday, being here, sitting on the dirty deck of the boat, as if even stepping foot off of the earth was a reprieve from her day to day life. Uncertain what to do about the key, which was likely sitting on a table an hour away, she looked down at the dirty water, wishing she were somewhere it was possible to swim. She’d love to slip out of her clothing and bravely splash foot first into the ocean, but this water was grimy, covered in a scum of sea-wrack and oil. Instead she looked about, trying to remember if there was a spare tucked away somewhere. Under the plant pot would be too easy, but it reminded her of the small window at the prow. They didn’t lock it, thinking it was too small for anything but the boat cat to crawl through. She stood, balancing against the rock of the craft, and decided it was time to prove herself wrong.
The paperclip guy has finally traded himself a house.
Sunday night, for a lark, Stephanie, her teacher friend, and I wrote a love letter by popular consensus over drinks at the bar at Moxie’s. (I told the bartender what we were doing and he gave me a free drink.) It came out strange. Our three personalities laying out the groundwork for an intimate exchange didn’t create a cohesive whole. I feel like my words sit on the surface of the elementary sentences like oil on water in a tourist shop toy.
My Dearest Love,
When we finally made that connection, you made me forget myself. I looked into those mesmerizing blue eyes and I felt something in my soul change. I felt my sadness slip away, to be replaced by the feeling of light serenity. When I dance with you, I feel transported, as if my limbs were made of silk. Before we were together, I felt like I was sleep walking, but your kiss has brought life into sharp focus.
Somehow we managed to cover all the bases in such a way that I don’t feel like there’s any effective communication. I think part of it is that the three of us have wildly differing needs in our relationships. We’re all three monogamous, but Stephanie is a very strong Men Are Pigs type, and though her friend is a bit more laid back, she also inherently believes that every one of them will cheat on her, while I yearn more for grace than control. My control issues are invisible, cloaked in my absolute trust. My need, instead, is to be essential, but from what I’ve gathered, they’re more concerned with getting regular sex than being necessary. It was an odd realization. I’m not sure what most people expect.
Why did I never notice that Bob Marley was sexy?
Now this is a real opening: She thought, There must be a hundred thousand dollars here. A man attacked me, chocked me, bit my neck, burned my hand, then stuffed my shirt full of money and put a dumpster on me and now I can see heat and hear fog. I’ve won Satan’s lottery.
