Kismet and Fire
She had a tendency to rest her head on my lap, and to somehow fall asleep while I'd still be typing away on my laptop. I don't know how she'd manage it, but she was my favorite contortionist. She could stretch her lean body and get comfortable like no other girl could.
Her heat often felt comforting to me, and I often used it to inspire my empty words. She was my prettiest muse. She was my own private Cirque du Soleil.
"Lately, I've been writing a lot of empty words," I said underneath my breath.
"Hmmm?" she mumbled. She was comfy, wrapped in a red tee, and half asleep on top of me.
I went back to typing on my laptop. Her body felt warmer than my machine.
"I took the client out for brunch the other day."
"What was she like?" she mumbled.
"She was really sweet. I wasn't expecting such an intimate conversation for a first brunch, I guess."
"Uh huh," she mumbled. Her face was buried into my lap.
I went back to typing. I felt like a part of me belonged to her, and so I always felt guilty whenever I'd mention other girls to her.
"I took the Spanish couple out for lunch the other day," I finally said.
"Uh huh."
I stayed silent for a bit.
"What was his wife like?" she finally mumbled. Her words vibrated into my skin.
"His wife is very sweet," I said. "She has very exotic features. I often remind him of how fortunate he is as a man."
She mumbled something and laughed gently. Her hands began to creep, and then she began to caress me gently.
I swallowed hard.
"There's a part of me," I whispered, "that doesn't recognize me when I'm around people anymore. I feel like I'm a totally different person around these people. It's like I wear this mask. Granted, I really the mask. Hey, I like the mask more than I like me sometimes."
She began to caress me harder. I tried to breathe gently. I looked down at her. She looked peaceful, and she kept her eyes shut, and she buried her face into me.
"Do you ever miss the city?" I whispered.
"No," she said. "I like the burbs."
I stayed silent for a bit.
"I sometimes worry if I forced you into it," I said. "Did I? I really worry if you were happier downtown."
Her fingers danced less gently.
"I don't know anymore," I said. "I don't know if I make the right choices anymore. Or if a subconscious, macro-economic-driven part of my brain does all this for me. I don't know if I'm the guy in charge of my brain anymore."
She began to move more aggressively, and I found myself breathing heavily. It was harder to pretend now. I was sweating on my forehead. I wanted to say something, but she interrupted me.
I would always let her speak first. She had a great deal of strength, and her will often subdued and comforted me.
"I'd like to believe," she whispered, and then she lifted her head and creeped up towards my face, "that there's very little of you left here that's not with me - not in my hand, not in my palm."
I tried not to kiss her.
"There's fate," she said, "and then there's fire, and then there's the rest of your brain."
She grabbed hard and I grimaced.
Who or what exactly controls the choices of men? I wondered. And for that matter, what exactly controls me? Fate, fire, or the girl in between?