There's the better part of a bottle of Pinot Noir in my belly, mixed with steak and spiced potatoes and this shaky feeling that's reducing my sore triceps to shivering mesh.
Yesterday, at Monstre's Wine and Hair Dye Night #2, sweet little Tanya who I'd never imagined could truly be so stunning a person cornered me in my own bathroom (where we swore that our secrets would never escape, anything could pass, anything could be said, and it would never escape the heavy, dark wood doors)...
She asked me about David.
You see, Tanya is David's officemate, and when she said "oh and my next project is David" and Tia and I chimed in with "don't worry about him, he's seeing someone" and she said
"Is it you, Monstre?" and finished of with a clever little giggle at having called me by my nickname.
I didn't know what to say. Apparently neither did David when she took him by surprise last week.
But David didn't know what to say because he doesn't want to overstep his bounds, and I didn't know what to say because suddenly I had a well-muscled trim 34-year-old bald lump in my throat.
With a pretty smile.
Oh it's wrong, it's wrong it's wrong I know it is, I know we swore to each other that this wasn't about anything but the warmth and acrobatics, but sometimes when he kisses me on the forehead before I pass out in his arms, it feels strange.
Too good for all the wrong reasons. I know better than to make decisions based on proximity and availability...
...And he's not beautiful and he's not brilliant and he's passionate but without fire, without fight, without fury, and I'm beginning to wonder why I'm looking for a fighter.
I've fought enough, haven't I?
But it's still not a good idea. This can only get messier and maybe it's because last night happened to be the first night this week where we didn't have the time to see each other (this week has been late nights at work and warm arms as solace) I'm jonesin' for attention, and that's not a good sign either.
But oh what I wouldn't give to be able to kiss him before we part ways for the weekend this evening.
It doesn't matter, though. It'll be clearer when I'm sober and naked on Monday, red wine and tight wool sweaters and Friday afternoons are bad for the libido, bad for the brain, and bad for my determination.
~
(and Tia just came by and wrote "I love you" on the back of my pasty white left hand in shiny-red-on-metallic-brown lipstick after massaging Peter's and I's scalps until we drooled shapely little puddles on the floor)
But y'know what, it's been a long, long time since I have found myself bored. :)