Waking to the fuzzy feel of the rapidly fraying silk sheets, her naked curvaceous body intertwined with his and, and more importantly, to the comforting knowledge that he was safe. Safe in her arms; cocooned within a calming sense of belonging, purpose, want, and need; the beat of his heart, once again accompanied with a melody. He was with his true love.
But with all that, came the familiar air of uncertainty. The uncertainty of what she was thinking (and why), or scheming to do next (and when), and then, how long this euphoria would last. But it was his choice, and he knew the plausible consequences. He knew he’d forfeited all control the moment he stepped towards her; yet he stepped anyway. The serpent that was their twisted, masochistic passion for one another had reawakened itself and was cotton-mouthed; thirsty for new blood. And in its unyielding quest to quench the thirst, would lead them both down a long spiraling ride of emotional anguish and sexual nirvana, as only a serpent can be held accountable.
But, so what?
Wasn’t it better than being stabbed to death by a complete stranger in the name of macho heroics? Wasn’t it better than so-called friends being confused by your art and vision? Wasn’t it better than sleeping on the streets or risking your life for a handful of mind-altering substances? Wasn’t it better than any of these things he had been through the past year?
It was.
Still, in his heart he probably knew that someday she would turn on him again. He knew deep down, in places he chose not to delve, that she would always get the better of him. It was probably written in a scripture somewhere. He was sure of it. But we choose our poisons; our preferred method of execution, the better of the evils; and if nothing else, her evil made him feel. And feeling was essential for him to maintain the scarce connection he had with his own humanity. A suffocating humanity that had not seen the light of day for well over six months; a humanity that was choking on its own cud.
When she spoke to him, she spoke to him like a human being and listened to him without premeditated assumptions of his point. As well as she knew him (and she knew him better than anyone) she still hung on to his every word, as if he was telling her of a late breaking news flash.
What’s more, the dreaded ‘someday’ may be decades away. Someday may be tomorrow. Someday may be a year or two. Who’s to say when someday is? He wasn’t about to spend his today’s worrying about someday. Someday, in the positive sense, still had yet to show its tardy ass, so why then would someday, in the negative sense, rear its miserable head any time sooner?
Her love was the fire in which he chose to keep warm from a biting cold reality that otherwise numbed his senses.
Period.
© 2012 Mark Rogers
(Book II)
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