2002-12-10

Note: The following is not brand-spankin' new. It's part of my nanowrimo "novel." So, I wrote it a few weeks ago. What I'm trying to say is: don't worry. I mean, it all pretty much still applies, but in a less melodramatic fashion.

I just had the best thought. Harris is the work of the devil. The Big Bad. From beneath you it devours. He’s the it that devours from beneath. I am seriously considering that I could be saving the world if it weren’t for him. If he weren’t distracting me with his evil and most sinister ways. I am consumed by him, and that’s exactly what the Big Bad wants. It wants my powers diffused. It wants my mind preoccupied with trifling little worries like, oh, woe is me. Why doesn’t he love me? Am I not pretty enough? Am I not suitably voluptuous? Hmm…perhaps I spoke too soon when I said I would never get implants. Hmm…maybe this is where I should put all my energy – becoming pretty enough for him; saying things that will make him laugh; going to the ends of the earth in order to find tapes of his favorite show so that I can give him the perfect birthday present. And what will I get in return? What the hell would I get if I got him all fifteen episodes of Cupid on high-quality VHS cassette tapes? I wonder. He would be a little surprised, I think. A little genuinely surprised. And pleased. I have no doubt he would be pleased. But what would I get out of his pleasure? Would he hug me? Would he kiss me on the cheek in gratitude, and would I swoon at his touch? Yes, he probably would, and yes, I definitely would. But what else? Would I get thank-you sex? Could I ever have sex with him again that wasn’t sad and melancholy and desperate? That wasn’t all nostalgia and pathos and pity? Is there any way that I could get pure pleasure out of being with him in any way, that wasn’t tainted with the past? I would love to think there is, but I am not that stupid.

So I need to act as if Harris is the devil. No matter how charming and how enticing. What, you think the devil isn’t charming and enticing? The devil is nothing but charm and enticement. He says exactly what you want to hear. He tells you you’re insanity makes you endearing, and because it is so different than the playfully mean back and forth that you usually have with him, you believe him, and you cling to it. He has called you endearing. You have endeared yourself to him. That is a close cousin to love. You can make the stretch. He is falling in love with you. The devil is falling in love with you. Harris is falling in love with you. For years, this is what you have hoped for. Even when you wouldn’t admit it, you knew. In fact, there was never a time when you wouldn’t admit it, you just wouldn’t talk about it – wouldn’t talk about him – because it would be too dangerous. You can’t lie about Harris. You can’t tell people you’re over him, that you don’t care about him, that you’re glad to be rid of him, because the truth would be louder than those lies. The space between the words would speak like a storm. It would almost be comical, except it would be too obvious, and the obvious does not amuse. It irritates and annoys the more visible it is. So you wouldn’t talk about him, because what in the world could you say?

For his part, Harris does like you. He always did. He wouldn’t have fucked you if he didn’t at least like you. But you got way too intense too fast. You sent him fuckin’ soup a week after you met him. Sending soup is the action of an established girlfriend, and you were just a weekend romp. A quick-witted, entertaining romp with a talented tongue, but a romp nonetheless. And he did like you. So he didn’t turn you down entirely right away. He tried to be gentle. Never told you he loved you. Never gave you the impression that you were exclusive. You created a beautiful little fantasy in your head, blinded by his good looks and knowing eyes, but you did it without his help. You called him all the time, and didn’t take the hint when he never called you back. You told him you wanted to see him, invited him out all the time, never listening to the screams that he never invited you. What exactly were you hearing? Because it wasn’t what he was telling you. It wasn’t what he was saying. You were fuckin’ married in your head. He was the one. You got each other. How could he not see that? How could it be just you?

It was totally just you. And it still is. But he is the devil, and so he does little to discourage.

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