Im A Hopeless Romantic. You’re Just Hopeless
June 20 2009
‘What would you do if I told you I had read it?’
I regard him closely as I think about it. It is possible he has. I have left it lying around on the times he has stayed over. It is likely he could have stolen quick reads while I was in the toilet. Thats the only bathroom related thing I do alone when he is around.
‘I guess there would be no changing what has already happened.’ I say slowly. ‘And as you are still hanging around there seems to be no harm done to this strange entanglement between us. I would be pissed but, not for long.’
‘Oh, cool.’ He says leaning over me and picking up my newly filled notebook by my side.
‘Hey!’ I say with real concern as I try to snatch it back from him. He is smiling. ‘But if I read it now.’ He says. ‘The future becomes the past there will be no harm done because the future will be just past.’
‘You have a lot of pretty words and that was a very nice try but, what’s contained there in is far too incriminating.’ This is an understatement as the whole notebook is filled with angst relating to him and how he makes me feel.
It is Sunday afternoon and the house is filled with various friends who are helping Conner make his album in the music production room upstairs. As people wait for thier turn to go up and provide various musical actions, they are watching football turned down low. He and I are not doing that though. We were curled up in my nest, two couches pushed together with blankets and it was very cozy on this cold afternoon. He and I are propped up on pillows talking and reading our books. He seemed momentarily more enthralled at the prospect of reading some original Jess than Naked Lunch.
It is hard to contain my glee at being by his side as we both read. He hates football. Could he get any more perfect? Nelly Walks past us on her way out the back to the garage affectionately named The Pit Of Despair where she will proceed to get more stoned than she already is with some others. ”Oh, look at you two reading your books.’ She coos on her way past.
I got tired of reading and just wanted to be close to hime so we changed positione slightly. I was now in his arms with my head resting on his chest as he had his arms around me while he continued reading. I am very content ion this position for some time untill I wiggled a bit and saw that in his hands was no longer William Burroughs but Jess Knight. I mean props for supporting womens writing but, pick a better time and place and oh, perhaps a book by a women who chose to share her writing?
I start to struggle in order to get out from his embrace and attempt to get my hand wriiten private words away from his eyes. It is no use and too late to fight it. I have no idea how long he had been holding me while reading the journal. To fight it now would be like a kitten fighting to get out of a sack that’s been thrown into a river. I get out of his arms and sit by his side pulsing with anxious defeat as he keeps reading. I lay down after a moment and stare at the ceiling while the annoying sound of AFL plays in the backround mixed with the chatter of other people. He loves my recount of a friends birthday I took him to. ‘This is beautiful.’ He laughs.
He gets quiet as he continues to read and I feel like I know what he is coming to. A part where I write about how he made me feel when he said he didn’t think he should see me for a week. He reaches out without saying a word he places his left hand over my right and entwines his fingers through mine squeezing gently as he continues to read.
I am sort of glad he is reading it. As strange as that sounds. At least someone was reading my scribble and not like in the past where they did it just to torment me and didn’t actually read all that much themselves at all. This person loves writing as much as me. He loves reading as much as me, if that is even possible. I wait with his fingers tangled in my own for him to say something more.
‘It’s so fraught.’ He says reverently before quoting me back to me, ”The immense weight it carried.” He reads aloud then, ‘You’re so poetic.’ he says.
‘Thank you.’ I say. ‘You bastard.’ He laughs softly. ‘I guess the more upset and sad I get the more poetic I become.’ ‘Yeah.’ he says, continuing to read for what seems like ages and hours and days as he continued to hold my hand. Finally he shuts my spiral hard cover notebook with a thud and puts it down. He brings a blanket so it is covering us and he curls up behind me and brings arms around me holding me tight. ‘Isn’t spooning great.’ He says into me hair. I respond in sigh of agreement. His hand starts caressing me and moves slowly up my skirt. He thinks I’m poetic? I smile. Perhaps this is the turning point. My words breaking down the last of his wall and worming inside his heart and there I can stay.