I do not know what it means to fall in love. My mother always told me that the bruises on my knees will prevent anybody from ever calling my eyes anything other than night. As if the way the pavements have kissed my bones has led prying eyes can see too deep into the holes in my heart. Fragility is my best friend and I hold her in whichever face I am trying to memorize.
Still, I live in this amaranthine desire to be held my arms that are warmer than mine but to never get close enough to get hurt. My direct screw you to the gods because I refuse to be weak enough to let someone break me like my father broke my mother.
“It’s gotta be that way!”
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Classy,” shoot. I promise I don’t feel a flutter. I’m too scared of butterflies, “So then how do you think you do it?”
“It’s all about the swivel of those hips. See swivel.”
“Oh yeah? The swivel?”
“And the voice. You’ve gotta do the voice- like an aerobics instructor.”
“And what does that sound like?”
“Ladies, follow me now. Yes, it’s 1, 2, 3 swivel. Let’s get those hip flexors open!”
“ Like this then? 1, 2, 3 swivel.” I perform the most passionate swivel of my life before I feel a hand clamped on my shoulder.
“That’s sweet, but no. You’ve gotta commit to that pelvic thrust. See.”
Oh no, oh no. “ Well then, I’m not opposed to another try?”
The eyebrow goes up. “You better not be.”
And we swivel and swivel until our hearts are full with the laughter resounding in our chests. I never considered myself a cynic, but I do not know of love. I am my very own dichotomy- a hopeless romantic misanthropist- who doesn’t believe in this choice people dread. Suddenly, I am back on the pavement sitting next to you as you dust off my knees. I don’t understand soulmates, or destiny, or even that little flutter in my chest, but when you say my name, perhaps, I want to try.
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