M looks weary. She doesn’t know what do with us. I can’t say either.
I don’t see a need for us to do anything other than what we have been
doing for the past two months, sleeping in the same bed and telling each
other that we love each other but don’t mean it.
M has this thing she does with her language that isn’t dissimilar from what a fifty year old woman I dated did to me that overwhelms me. It usually starts with the question of whether I’m capable of love.
You can trust me I said. I like M am not sure what I mean by trust.
To hurt me, M said.
If that’s what you want I will, I said. If not not.
Are you capable of love M said. This has been M’s question for the past month.
It is the same question the fifty year old asked me. I certainly thought I was loving
the fifty year old in my way. Apparently it wasn’t in a way that the fifty year old was
satisfied with. She told me about sleeping with men in their fifties who
were on viagra and had body parts that were dysfunctional. As far as I could tell everything was working for me except I wasn’t getting a hard on. It was shortly after my wife had ousted me from the house we share with our daughter and I felt homeless living in a small domicile on 24th avenue and Oregon.
M is confused by herself. M has to be drinking. Her line of reasoning isn’t
consistent. She disappears for weeks on end. She lies about the many lovers she is seeing and then perversely argues with me about monogamy. I find it stimulating not to have to listen to the the drone that is my head when M carries on but I have reached my threshold.
I think your question is good for your novel, I said.
You forget when I’m not around, M said. She’s not around because she’s with one of her four lovers and drinking when she should be at an AA meeting.
I think about your thighs, I said.
Thinking about me is different than thinking of me, M said.
How’s your novel, I said.
I’m not writing, M said. I’m too stressed about money.
I can give you some money, I said.
I don’t want your money, M said.
Can I ask what your diagnosis is, M said.
I fall in love, I said.
No really, we both know you don’t fall in love, M said.
Are you a Narcissist border line personality bi polar, M said.
I have a mood disorder, I said.
Well that is obvious, M said. I’m sorry I asked you a very personal question.
It’s okay, I said, You asked and I didn’t have to tell you but I did.
I feel demoralized. M asks me a personal question and I answer it and then she says she’s sorry she asked it and I put up with it because of the little love that she gives me.
The lawn is hewed yellow brown from the Portland July Sun. It hasn’t rained really in a month. The fan is at full blast on the red wood chair in my bedroom. I pulled up M’s white t shirt and pulled at the blue bra she had on. It wouldn’t budge. I wasn’t able to free a breast.
Do you want to ly down in the bedroom, I said.
No, Mercy, said. I need to think things over. I don’t know what I want. I think I need monogamy when I’m in love.
Are you in love, I said.
It’s too onesided for me to be in love, M said.