Post by goldenmyst on Sept 15, 2020 13:29:21 GMT -6
Strangers in a Strange Bed
Monica surprises me. “Honey, my waist size is down to where it was when we got married. How should we celebrate?”
“Let’s go to the girl’s roller derby.”
“You just want to get an eye full of those girls going at it like Amazon warriors. You get turned on by that.”
“Well, don’t you get excited by football players?”
“Are you kidding me? Do I get turned on by a bunch of hairy Neanderthals slapping each other’s butts? Hell yes!”
I say, “Give me a few minutes until I finish this chapter.”
My wife Monica looks at me quizzically. “What are you reading, hun?”
I reply, “It is about the etymology of the word ‘wife’ which is a term that implies possession which is a concept I abhor.”
Monica says, “You know Dan my desire is to be owned by you. But like a pet, I long to be taken on a walk. You can put me on a leash if you’re concerned about me straying.”
“I’m only reading this to cultivate my intellect. The subject matter is tedious and boring.”
“But it must be more fascinating than me for you to invest so much time and focus on it.”
I say, “That’s like comparing apples and oranges. Books fulfill an intellectual need. You are the elixir of my life. Your beauty blesses this house as no book could. You are far more than my spouse.”
Monica answers, “So I am window dressing? I’d like to think our love is more profound than me being an art piece you gaze at when lonely.”
“Art provides a profound experience no less deep or meaningful than books. It is just different. You are a vision of Pre-Raphaelite loveliness my love. In no way are you diminished by being compared to art.”
“I wish I could be more than your female stereotype. I am an intellectual too. I read books. Can’t we connect on some other level than that of art piece and patron?”
“My Lady of Shalott books pale in importance when compared to you. Your place in my life is more than that of a painting hung on the wall. You are a living breathing embodiment of all that is virtuous and good in life.”
“Dan, I see the beauty in your words. But to be honest I don’t live in your world. I want so badly to be part of your life. However, your abstractions elude me. Please try to talk to me of love in a clear way. I love it when you make me smile. I miss that.”
“You make Paris Hilton look like a tramp.”
Monica looks bewildered. “That is what I mean, sort of.”
“Would you like to take a walk with me,” I ask?
“Are you crazy? I wanted a walk through life with you! And you’re offering me a trot around the block.”
“Exercise puts me in the mood for reading and might do so for you. Afterward, we could read to each other. I can read the scene from Ovid where Apollo chases Daphne through the forest. You could read Sappho to me.”
“You want to recite poetry for foreplay?”
“I read that unlike men, women get aroused by words instead of visuals.”
“Well yes we do, but accompanied by heavy petting with physical displays of affection and hold the literature please.”
“What if we listened to recordings of readings of the British romantics while in the middle of lovemaking? That would be the best of both worlds.”
“Why don’t you try simple sanity?”
I tell her, “I have. It is as bland as cream of wheat minus the milk.”
Monica pleads, “But I can’t get into the mood when you babble.”
I say, “You make rationality so tempting my temptress.”
She asserts, “You better believe it. You’re a man. Don’t you want me to please you?”
“Oh the timbre of your voice in the throes of passion would be divine opera” I reply.
She replies, “Then talk to me like a normal person. I need you to be normal for me.”
“OK, I’ll be normal.”
She says, “Music to my ears. Now let’s have a sane conversation.”
I query, “What do you want to talk about the weather?”
She asserts, “Hey do I look like a meteorologist? Sometimes you really piss me off.”
“The roses run in red rivers across the trellis under which our love blooms,” I lyricise.
She replies, “That’s beautiful. But I’m giving you fair warning. Cut it out or I’ll…”
“Or you’ll part the Red Sea and escape the bondage of our romance?”
“Yea, that’s exactly right. But quit talking in metaphors. You know that drives me nuts.”
I say, “My language leaps over the literal into realms beyond reason.”
“We are foreigners struggling in futility to find a common language” she laments.
“So sad isn’t it. A slight shift in my mind and harmony might ensue” I observe.
“Why can’t you just be yourself? All the jibber-jabber gets you nowhere” she begs.
I reply, “Only to the fathomless depths of oceanic solitude.”
She counterparts, “Where a warm touch is more distant than the stars. You are like a performing seal who so desperately wants to let go of the ball he tries to balance on his nose. Just try to be normal for me, please. I’m begging you. Do I have to get down on my knees?”
I say, “Well that sounds enticing.”
She pleads, “Don’t make me do it. But I will if that’s what it takes. Please give me something to hold onto.”
I point out, “Easier said than done. Madness runs in the family.”
She says, “Like a pox.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I find myself pretty entertaining” I quip.
“You’re no Groucho Marx,” she counterparts.
Later in the evening, I check the mail. There is a letter from a lawyer addressed to me. It says he has been retained by Monica for divorce. I show it to her and say, “Why didn’t you tell me? Isn’t a letter kind of impersonal?”
Monica exclaims, “I just didn’t feel up to breaking the news to you. Don’t feel so bad. Our divorce was preordained.”
“Calvin believed in double predestination, some people were destined for hell and others heaven. There was no escape. A war was fought between the Catholics and Huguenots who were Calvinists in 16th century France. Then Martin Luther came who believed anyone can be saved. Nobody’s fate was sealed by God. Likewise, though our marriage isn’t guaranteed to survive, it is not ordained by the Lord to end.”
“There you go again! Do you have to impress me with your book knowledge when we may never see each other again? Is that a reflex mechanism for you when an emotional response is called for? Can’t you just turn off the encyclopedia?”
I say, “Sorry, may the wind be at your back.”
“Come on, can’t you do better than that cliché? Say something original and say it from your heart. Do I have to do everything for you, like I did the chores? You don’t know how to say goodbye.”
“Would you like a tush massage for old time’s sake?”
Like an azalea that surprises me by blooming in winter, she laughs. “We could have made it to the finish line together in this marathon called life. But it was a make-believe world though beautiful. Your nonsense was funny but grating at times.”
I answer, “Like when I said I love you like a truant from reality?”
She says, “Yes, and when you talk in poetry.”
I answer, “But I thought you liked my poetry.”
She says, “I like to read it but I don’t like making poetic conversation.”
I say, “I wish that I could always speak plainly. But, my mind juggles riddle puzzles like a linguist on acid.”
Monica muses, “So strange but beautiful you are. Like a pink dolphin.”
I duet with her, “And like the dolphin, I must return to the sea from whence I cometh.”
She mates with my verse, “To frolic among the waves under the stars.”
“We make good poetry together,” I tell her.
She answers, “Yes if only it were enough. God, all this break up talk has me sweating bullets. I need a hot shower.”
“Could you use a partner to scrub you down, one for the road?”
She replies, “Yes for old time’s sake.”
Together, we step in the manmade waterfall of her shower and ballroom dance under the pelt of liquid joy. Each hot bead steams my skin into blushed manhood. She shuts off the rush of water. Then I close my eyes and feel the opium rush of cool air on my drenched body.
With sure feet, I follow her footsteps to the window and stand caressed in the late spring breeze. I know that in the French Quarter her nudity is a form of art that is appreciated by a passerby on streets littered with beer cans and condoms.
She wraps herself in terrycloth. Her bathrobe looks like a pre-exhibition drapery on her nude portrait.
She retreats to the living room and retrieves the letter addressed to me from her lawyer. She holds it like a shoplifted magazine from the rack at the convenience store. Then she turns on the sink faucet and carelessly drops the legal document into the pouring water. She says, “Oops. Now it is a soggy mess. Never was much use anyway.” She wads it up and throws it in the wastebasket. She says, “Honey, please remember to empty the receptacle tonight. I am so forgetful.”
I reply, “Should I remind you to call your lawyer and cancel your case?”
She says, “I won’t forget that.”
Monica surprises me. “Honey, my waist size is down to where it was when we got married. How should we celebrate?”
“Let’s go to the girl’s roller derby.”
“You just want to get an eye full of those girls going at it like Amazon warriors. You get turned on by that.”
“Well, don’t you get excited by football players?”
“Are you kidding me? Do I get turned on by a bunch of hairy Neanderthals slapping each other’s butts? Hell yes!”
I say, “Give me a few minutes until I finish this chapter.”
My wife Monica looks at me quizzically. “What are you reading, hun?”
I reply, “It is about the etymology of the word ‘wife’ which is a term that implies possession which is a concept I abhor.”
Monica says, “You know Dan my desire is to be owned by you. But like a pet, I long to be taken on a walk. You can put me on a leash if you’re concerned about me straying.”
“I’m only reading this to cultivate my intellect. The subject matter is tedious and boring.”
“But it must be more fascinating than me for you to invest so much time and focus on it.”
I say, “That’s like comparing apples and oranges. Books fulfill an intellectual need. You are the elixir of my life. Your beauty blesses this house as no book could. You are far more than my spouse.”
Monica answers, “So I am window dressing? I’d like to think our love is more profound than me being an art piece you gaze at when lonely.”
“Art provides a profound experience no less deep or meaningful than books. It is just different. You are a vision of Pre-Raphaelite loveliness my love. In no way are you diminished by being compared to art.”
“I wish I could be more than your female stereotype. I am an intellectual too. I read books. Can’t we connect on some other level than that of art piece and patron?”
“My Lady of Shalott books pale in importance when compared to you. Your place in my life is more than that of a painting hung on the wall. You are a living breathing embodiment of all that is virtuous and good in life.”
“Dan, I see the beauty in your words. But to be honest I don’t live in your world. I want so badly to be part of your life. However, your abstractions elude me. Please try to talk to me of love in a clear way. I love it when you make me smile. I miss that.”
“You make Paris Hilton look like a tramp.”
Monica looks bewildered. “That is what I mean, sort of.”
“Would you like to take a walk with me,” I ask?
“Are you crazy? I wanted a walk through life with you! And you’re offering me a trot around the block.”
“Exercise puts me in the mood for reading and might do so for you. Afterward, we could read to each other. I can read the scene from Ovid where Apollo chases Daphne through the forest. You could read Sappho to me.”
“You want to recite poetry for foreplay?”
“I read that unlike men, women get aroused by words instead of visuals.”
“Well yes we do, but accompanied by heavy petting with physical displays of affection and hold the literature please.”
“What if we listened to recordings of readings of the British romantics while in the middle of lovemaking? That would be the best of both worlds.”
“Why don’t you try simple sanity?”
I tell her, “I have. It is as bland as cream of wheat minus the milk.”
Monica pleads, “But I can’t get into the mood when you babble.”
I say, “You make rationality so tempting my temptress.”
She asserts, “You better believe it. You’re a man. Don’t you want me to please you?”
“Oh the timbre of your voice in the throes of passion would be divine opera” I reply.
She replies, “Then talk to me like a normal person. I need you to be normal for me.”
“OK, I’ll be normal.”
She says, “Music to my ears. Now let’s have a sane conversation.”
I query, “What do you want to talk about the weather?”
She asserts, “Hey do I look like a meteorologist? Sometimes you really piss me off.”
“The roses run in red rivers across the trellis under which our love blooms,” I lyricise.
She replies, “That’s beautiful. But I’m giving you fair warning. Cut it out or I’ll…”
“Or you’ll part the Red Sea and escape the bondage of our romance?”
“Yea, that’s exactly right. But quit talking in metaphors. You know that drives me nuts.”
I say, “My language leaps over the literal into realms beyond reason.”
“We are foreigners struggling in futility to find a common language” she laments.
“So sad isn’t it. A slight shift in my mind and harmony might ensue” I observe.
“Why can’t you just be yourself? All the jibber-jabber gets you nowhere” she begs.
I reply, “Only to the fathomless depths of oceanic solitude.”
She counterparts, “Where a warm touch is more distant than the stars. You are like a performing seal who so desperately wants to let go of the ball he tries to balance on his nose. Just try to be normal for me, please. I’m begging you. Do I have to get down on my knees?”
I say, “Well that sounds enticing.”
She pleads, “Don’t make me do it. But I will if that’s what it takes. Please give me something to hold onto.”
I point out, “Easier said than done. Madness runs in the family.”
She says, “Like a pox.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I find myself pretty entertaining” I quip.
“You’re no Groucho Marx,” she counterparts.
Later in the evening, I check the mail. There is a letter from a lawyer addressed to me. It says he has been retained by Monica for divorce. I show it to her and say, “Why didn’t you tell me? Isn’t a letter kind of impersonal?”
Monica exclaims, “I just didn’t feel up to breaking the news to you. Don’t feel so bad. Our divorce was preordained.”
“Calvin believed in double predestination, some people were destined for hell and others heaven. There was no escape. A war was fought between the Catholics and Huguenots who were Calvinists in 16th century France. Then Martin Luther came who believed anyone can be saved. Nobody’s fate was sealed by God. Likewise, though our marriage isn’t guaranteed to survive, it is not ordained by the Lord to end.”
“There you go again! Do you have to impress me with your book knowledge when we may never see each other again? Is that a reflex mechanism for you when an emotional response is called for? Can’t you just turn off the encyclopedia?”
I say, “Sorry, may the wind be at your back.”
“Come on, can’t you do better than that cliché? Say something original and say it from your heart. Do I have to do everything for you, like I did the chores? You don’t know how to say goodbye.”
“Would you like a tush massage for old time’s sake?”
Like an azalea that surprises me by blooming in winter, she laughs. “We could have made it to the finish line together in this marathon called life. But it was a make-believe world though beautiful. Your nonsense was funny but grating at times.”
I answer, “Like when I said I love you like a truant from reality?”
She says, “Yes, and when you talk in poetry.”
I answer, “But I thought you liked my poetry.”
She says, “I like to read it but I don’t like making poetic conversation.”
I say, “I wish that I could always speak plainly. But, my mind juggles riddle puzzles like a linguist on acid.”
Monica muses, “So strange but beautiful you are. Like a pink dolphin.”
I duet with her, “And like the dolphin, I must return to the sea from whence I cometh.”
She mates with my verse, “To frolic among the waves under the stars.”
“We make good poetry together,” I tell her.
She answers, “Yes if only it were enough. God, all this break up talk has me sweating bullets. I need a hot shower.”
“Could you use a partner to scrub you down, one for the road?”
She replies, “Yes for old time’s sake.”
Together, we step in the manmade waterfall of her shower and ballroom dance under the pelt of liquid joy. Each hot bead steams my skin into blushed manhood. She shuts off the rush of water. Then I close my eyes and feel the opium rush of cool air on my drenched body.
With sure feet, I follow her footsteps to the window and stand caressed in the late spring breeze. I know that in the French Quarter her nudity is a form of art that is appreciated by a passerby on streets littered with beer cans and condoms.
She wraps herself in terrycloth. Her bathrobe looks like a pre-exhibition drapery on her nude portrait.
She retreats to the living room and retrieves the letter addressed to me from her lawyer. She holds it like a shoplifted magazine from the rack at the convenience store. Then she turns on the sink faucet and carelessly drops the legal document into the pouring water. She says, “Oops. Now it is a soggy mess. Never was much use anyway.” She wads it up and throws it in the wastebasket. She says, “Honey, please remember to empty the receptacle tonight. I am so forgetful.”
I reply, “Should I remind you to call your lawyer and cancel your case?”
She says, “I won’t forget that.”
