I met her in a very large day, a beautiful woman with a big brain, and long hair, and very pretty eyes, all enchanted in her sullen thoughts, sunken cheeks, a poet’s daughter, an opera singer’s granddaughter, and she was also rich, popular, but not quite like other girls. Meanwhile, I was but a lone existence, not a wild hog, but a pig with little tiny feet, wobbling its way tripping over my own natural fat, a life 1/3rd of a literary creatine, 1/3rd of a man who liked to drink alcoholic beverages and smoke marijuana rolls, and 1/3rd of anticapitalist ghost, chained, divided, trapped, son of Adan, smeared in love by Eve, generations of curses from three different cultures, one forgotten diaspora, and sayings deemed worthy of my respect said by my friends, my lovers, my sex workers, and my parents.
But she was a different gal. She jumped like this, and she talked like that, and she laughed like this, and she opened my mind like no one ever before. We talked, and first we hated each other, and then we ended up loving each other, because we were both fascinated, i.e., captivated, i.e., eroticized by each other even though we have nothing in common and I am ugly. How could this have happened? Only in my dreams, as if written by some demented, lonely, quirky, wacky, unique author who likes to play with language? No, this was real life, and this was happening to me!
We began to love each other first in subtracting each other through the mouth, then dividing the pleasurable genitals/sweaty areas of our bodies, then adding our tongues and our washed fingers, and finally, multiplying our spirits, the love, which as we knew, love was the ultimate diversion, the one thing that distracts us of a life, which is loveless, unless taken care of. The point was, unironically, that I was having lots of sex and writing about it, and feeling it pretty goodly, and also, I was detailing it in my mind, and we were having economic issues, due to the capitalism thing, and also, I was having problems with my relationships, which were being influenced by outside factors of the “socially relevant” variety, and I was in the middle of it. At the same time I was being loved and having love, I was reading a bunch of stuff that was very relevant, in literature and philosophy, and I was applying it in my life through very intricate phrases. I told her about it, and sometimes she laughed, and sometimes she vomited, for her life was a falsity, as was mine.
Inevitably, it all led to the affair, which was bound to happen, because I realized, that deep down inside of me, the insecure man that I was, I thrived on the bitchy drama that it could create, for my writings, i.e., so that she could learn to grow beyond. She would forgive me, of course, or she would die, or the entire town would die, or there would be a nice, little denouement, that the reason I did this, and the reason we ended up here, is all a byproduct of a deep obsession: a roulette turns endlessly I felt, death, or love, or the dictatorship which I was sure I mentioned, or the pointlessness of being pointless, or a book I had read, or a theme, a symbol, a bunch of lines I had memorized, that had been creeping up on our lives incessantly that suddenly were certain and dramatically ironic.
The morose relationship we had, it was never meant to be, but we managed to get a good book, and more importantly, a good prize out of it, I told her. But she didn’t understand, because it wasn’t meant to be, this was too abstract for her, but it was perfectly sensible to me, the main character, who had managed to get sex with her to not ever let it go. Those were the words we might have parted on and then I disappeared, where I belonged, having not changed one bit.