Two Wrongs Don’t Make A Right and Three Lefts Will Get You Nowhere (in bed)

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” She said. “I’m sorry for making you feel as if you did.”

I can never kind of. My heart is so often in a space of obsessive dedication or completely bankrupt of a feeling. I wonder how strangers do it, and wince at their ability to feign interest or sadness with a sort of quiet mix of pity and admiration. It takes talent to appear good without being so, damn what Plato said, and I wish I could pretend to care about the excessive acclaim people place on their trivial and self made problems.

“It’s been a hard week. A lot’s been going on,”

Be kind, I’ve heard it said, because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

“I’ve been drinking too much and trying to figure this out. I didn’t want anybody to see me like this.”

But some fights weigh heavier than others. Try whining about your boss or cell phone coverage and see how much Atlas shrugs.

“He destroyed my whole apartment, Noel.”

The way she says my name is devastating, leaves me aching and reaching for her like that first cigarette after work. I’ve read that saying a persons name for emphasis is a social trick, how we’re conditioned to turn our heads and attention, listen closely to whoever utters it. Who must obviously know and acknowledge us, and by extension, deserves the same.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked. How are you?”

I’ve never been a fan of emotional cons, and I know all about Pavlov’s dogs. Lucky for me, I’ve always been more of a cat person. You might say my name a hundred times but I won’t so much as look at you until I absolutely feel like it.

“My aunt died but I couldn’t make it to the funeral, and I can’t figure out if I should quit my job or not. Shrug life, I guess.” I said, because comedic deflection is kind of my specialty.

She pauses on the phone and makes an audible sigh, a sign that she’s internalizing what’s been presented. The next words out of her mouth I know are I’m-So-Sorry, but, I wonder, is she really? Staring at the door frame he’s torn down for the fourth time. Her mind racing to make excuses and justifications I won’t bother to pay much mind to.

“Its been hard for both of us,” Is all she said. “How are we going to get over it.”

And in the background I hear a click of a mousepad, and I imagine its probably for the number to the locksmith she always forgets.

I can never kind of. My heart is so often in a space of obsessive dedication or completely bankrupt of a feeling.

To be between her and a failing marriage is a place I’m all but unfamiliar to. My All-Or-Nothing is something of a gift and a curse that way. How many relationship hang ups have I profited of? How many times have I felt the thighs of disatisfied army wives only looking for a shoulder and bit of understanding? Enough for me to realize I am no Casanova or protagonist, but a short escape for those with nothing to lose, twisted hearts, and a bit of time on their hands.

“I guess we’ll figure it out, Kate.” I said.

Because who doesn’t love a game of cat and mouse.

 

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