The Babbling Bourgeois

his side, her side, their side...b-side.

...But A Dream

Somehow, someway he finds a way to convince your thighs to forgive him, allowing them to part from one another and embrace his apology...
— BB

You stood no chance from the beginning. Your fate was written before his words could escape his Vaseline quenched lips and make their way down his factory produced suit into your awaiting ears.  Your mind said no while your heart cried, yes.  Your meeting was destined, the sun told the moon to tell the stars to shift to align so perfectly that there would be no denying.

A connection so intense that it put your past to shame, shame, shame.  You tried to justify it by calling it lust, although lusting was the last thing on your to-do list.  You made love to his eyes a million times over, danced with his lips until you ran out of breath, saliva cold and chilly, unforgiving and unyielding.  To be near him was pleasure, to be away from him was pain.  Or at least that how it begins.

Things get more serious, as they always do.  As the honeymooners now become the old married couple everyone remembers but no one cares to talk about.   There are no more calls to ask how so and so is doing.  You are left to deal with your own feelings, oh and his too.  Saturday night arguments about him leaving dishes in the sink and the fruit punch stain you found in the living room last week.

You go to bed pissed off but somehow someway he finds a way to convince your thighs to forgive him, allowing them to part from one another and embrace his apology.  Now finding yourself buried deeper in his words and less in his actions, damn how do women do that?  Have the innate ability to forgo the physical action behind a man's word and only open up to the verbal.  We swallow it whole no chaser needed.

While he sleeps you take the piece that is he and try to fit him into a puzzle that he clearly doesn't belong.  You envision his family, a picture of perfection, not perfect, perfect, nothings perfect.  But perfect in your eyes, his mother, graceful, overbearing indeed, but you go above and beyond to display you are that pot slinging, checks bringing, hymn singing woman that you think she wants for her son.  Even if deep down inside you don’t believe it yourself.

His father is strong and is amazing by example – you only wished that he’d take more after his daddy.  Have vision like his daddy, have faithfulness like his daddy.  Yet, he’s asleep unaware of your hopes for him.  You want to kiss him, hoping he’ll awake to be the prince that you'd dreamt of.  He definitely wasn't like his brother, his brother was solid and sure.  Made an honest woman out of the woman he shared a bed with.  Yet, you lay.

You find yourself tugging him along, giving directions like a mother, constantly wondering to yourself how you got into this.  But there would be times where he’d turn his head distracted by something or another, roll out of bed in the wee hours of the morning, completely nude to relieve himself, or times where he would laugh at a movie, overly exaggerated of course, but you would pray a silent prayer, thanking God for him.  Confessing that you loved him but you were scared, didn't know what this meant.  Questioning how you could love and dislike a being so much, so intensely.

Then it happened, the inevitable break up.  You hate him, he hates you. You’re hurt, he’s hurt, and ultimately you hurt it.  Convincing yourself that it didn't have a chance, that it deserved better.  Life unraveled around you.  No.  He wasn't there to help you to pick up the debris that consisted of your life, he was living the dream, while agony tucked you in at night and made you breakfast in the morning.

Days went by, months went by, minutes, seconds.  Your relationship now a revolving door, the likes of Melanie Fiona and old school Monica jams became your soundtrack.  You moved away, yet still kept a second, a third, even a 50th chance in your pocket for the taking.  If only he would have....taken it.

You refused to believe in the word goodbye, goodbye was for suckers, was for quitters.  Goodbye was easy.  Actually, it was hard.  Too hard.  You still walk that familiar path in hopes of seeing his factory made suit and Vaseline quenched lips.  Maybe if you did, he'd say something different this time.

Say something that'd convince you to pass on giving him your number, giving him your energy, your time, your heart.  You'd be strangers from that day forward.  A map of his face would no longer be etched in your mind for eternity.  You could forget his existence all together.  And he, yours.

A girl can dream, though....


Go Confidently in the direction of your dreams, live the life you have imagined - Henry David Thoreau

© 2016, The Babbling Bourgeois