Don't Turn off the Lights--Chapter 2
Have you ever noticed that when the batteries in the remote control are low, we tend to push harder on the buttons? It's a phenomenon that is unexplainable. There are times when a simple explanation would mean more than any money amount in the world. For example, if somebody gave you an explanation as to how to cure cancer. Well, it probably isn't simple, if it were I'm sure somebody would have already cured it, but if it were and somebody explained it to you...the probability that you would share it with the world is astounding.
I fell in love for the first time at the age of twenty-six, until that time I was certain that love did not exist. It was illogical then, much like it is now, but I've experienced it now, and so I know that it does exist. I was certain, as I said before that the card and candy companies made up some poems and imposed this idea onto us. An idea of a feeling, one that makes you stare at the phone. A feeling that makes you want to eat more, or eat less. A feeling that makes you cry, and laugh. I had never felt that feeling, and so I laughed at those silly romantic comedies where men left their jobs to find a woman that they saw on the train once. I berated songs where paradise just happened to be in somebody's arms.
Eric, the four-letter word that all of my friends steer clear of within two miles of my radars. Eric, the handsome, loveable bastard that I would love to hug and kill. He broke my heart. that's the easiest sentence I've ever said in my life. And the hardest, I loved him. In the past, loved. It sounds so trite now. I remember nights together, and the first time he told me he loved me.
As cliche as it might sound, we were sitting in my apartment, the light glow of candles turning the light blue walls into a shadow show. The aroma of the candles, a blend of various melpons, took us to some remote tropical locale. The rain gracefully tapping at the window, followed by the distant yell of thunder and burst of light, sang the perfect soundtrack to a glorious evening.
We sat on my overstuffed beige couch and listened. Listened to the rain, listed to each other's presence, just listened. He played with my hair, and followed a strand down to where it lay on my breast. Then he gently stroked my nipple. It startled me, and then it felt comfortable, like it had happened that way for years. He leaned over and gently kissed my lips and then he whispered, "I love you." I stared at him blankly and blinked, my mouth hung open for a bit. At first I just didn't answer and then finally I whispered back, "thank-you." I half expected him to say you're welcome, but he never did. So, i just sat there and grinned with my lips together, waiting for him to say anything.
I became painstakingly aware of myself. My hands felt like baseball gloves lying on my lap. The nape of my neck was damp, and so my hair began to frizz, I was certain that it looked like a poodle. I kept chewing on my bottom lip, and my leg was shaking. Far worse than any of that was the queasy feeling in my stomach. My mind was screaming, "I'm sorry, I messed that up, let's try it again." I wondered what he was thinking while he was looking at me, then the floor, then my leg. He lifted his right eyebrow and then smiled a toothy grin. he began to say something, and then stopped, chuckled to himself and finally began to speak.
"You know, you're perfectly different." I just looked at him, and wondered exactly how long does it take for somebody to come up with the words perfectly and different. i wondered if I was more perfect or more different. I hoped then, as I do now, that I was more perfect. I also wondered if he had told me that he loved me just to get into my pants, because we had only been dating for approximately one month. I barely knew him, but at that time I was fairly certain that I wanted to be with him. So we made love, or at least I made love to him, that night. Hence, if he was just trying to get into my pants, it worked.
Eric and I dated for another year, and we had the same problems that every couple does. We fought over money, we fought over space, but mostly we had jealousy issues. He was foolishly jealous over the guy whose line I always go through at the grocery store. I told him that there was nothing there, that the guy Chuck, was just fast. I was jealous over Beverly, Eric's sister's best friend. She had blonde hair which hung just below her chin. she was also think, her flat toned tummy always showing. She had a nose piercing, and her make-up was flawless, always! I don't know if she ever sweat. I caught Eric checking her out once, and I joked about it.
He just rolled his eyes and told me that he had no feelings for Beverly, and that I had nothing to worry about. He said I was the only girl for him, she meant nothing. He lied.
I fell in love for the first time at the age of twenty-six, until that time I was certain that love did not exist. It was illogical then, much like it is now, but I've experienced it now, and so I know that it does exist. I was certain, as I said before that the card and candy companies made up some poems and imposed this idea onto us. An idea of a feeling, one that makes you stare at the phone. A feeling that makes you want to eat more, or eat less. A feeling that makes you cry, and laugh. I had never felt that feeling, and so I laughed at those silly romantic comedies where men left their jobs to find a woman that they saw on the train once. I berated songs where paradise just happened to be in somebody's arms.
Eric, the four-letter word that all of my friends steer clear of within two miles of my radars. Eric, the handsome, loveable bastard that I would love to hug and kill. He broke my heart. that's the easiest sentence I've ever said in my life. And the hardest, I loved him. In the past, loved. It sounds so trite now. I remember nights together, and the first time he told me he loved me.
As cliche as it might sound, we were sitting in my apartment, the light glow of candles turning the light blue walls into a shadow show. The aroma of the candles, a blend of various melpons, took us to some remote tropical locale. The rain gracefully tapping at the window, followed by the distant yell of thunder and burst of light, sang the perfect soundtrack to a glorious evening.
We sat on my overstuffed beige couch and listened. Listened to the rain, listed to each other's presence, just listened. He played with my hair, and followed a strand down to where it lay on my breast. Then he gently stroked my nipple. It startled me, and then it felt comfortable, like it had happened that way for years. He leaned over and gently kissed my lips and then he whispered, "I love you." I stared at him blankly and blinked, my mouth hung open for a bit. At first I just didn't answer and then finally I whispered back, "thank-you." I half expected him to say you're welcome, but he never did. So, i just sat there and grinned with my lips together, waiting for him to say anything.
I became painstakingly aware of myself. My hands felt like baseball gloves lying on my lap. The nape of my neck was damp, and so my hair began to frizz, I was certain that it looked like a poodle. I kept chewing on my bottom lip, and my leg was shaking. Far worse than any of that was the queasy feeling in my stomach. My mind was screaming, "I'm sorry, I messed that up, let's try it again." I wondered what he was thinking while he was looking at me, then the floor, then my leg. He lifted his right eyebrow and then smiled a toothy grin. he began to say something, and then stopped, chuckled to himself and finally began to speak.
"You know, you're perfectly different." I just looked at him, and wondered exactly how long does it take for somebody to come up with the words perfectly and different. i wondered if I was more perfect or more different. I hoped then, as I do now, that I was more perfect. I also wondered if he had told me that he loved me just to get into my pants, because we had only been dating for approximately one month. I barely knew him, but at that time I was fairly certain that I wanted to be with him. So we made love, or at least I made love to him, that night. Hence, if he was just trying to get into my pants, it worked.
Eric and I dated for another year, and we had the same problems that every couple does. We fought over money, we fought over space, but mostly we had jealousy issues. He was foolishly jealous over the guy whose line I always go through at the grocery store. I told him that there was nothing there, that the guy Chuck, was just fast. I was jealous over Beverly, Eric's sister's best friend. She had blonde hair which hung just below her chin. she was also think, her flat toned tummy always showing. She had a nose piercing, and her make-up was flawless, always! I don't know if she ever sweat. I caught Eric checking her out once, and I joked about it.
He just rolled his eyes and told me that he had no feelings for Beverly, and that I had nothing to worry about. He said I was the only girl for him, she meant nothing. He lied.