An infinite silence was disrupted by a big bang. The doorbell rang. He knew it was her. She was transparent and he could see all the ins of her. He rose from his temple and dwindled at the door-handle, further predicting a bottle of cheap shiraz clutched in her left hand, and a pre-prepared lentil-based meal in the other. He was right. Her fatal predictability made his face cringe.
She lingered awkwardly, leaned in, and kissed him on both cheeks, giggling shyly as she pulled away. She smelled heavily of cigarettes and cinnamon. In a nervous stutter she asked him if he was glad to see her. He smiled forcefully, sure. Yet it was she who had constantly probed for invitation. To heighten the resentment, she had carelessly plucked him right out of a sentient state of egotistical romance, to tempt him with immorality and decadence.
He could not help but despise her cooking and loathe the clothes she wore. She dressed in a pretentious fashion. To sit and eat and drink on the floor of his minimalist interior did not require such a clad application combined with overly-extended heels that said ‘fuck me’. He decided to keep such musings in his minds. However, it did not prevent him from demeaning and undermining her, which warmed his patriarchal pleasures. Soon they would be physically fulfilled.
Tonight he was a boy disguised as a man. It was her that brought out his childishness, he refused to blame himself. His awareness wandered in an out of her ramblings while his eyes explored the soft contours of her chest. It was a hateful gaze fueled by uncontrollable bursts of sexual impatience.
He hated that she could arouse such temptation. He hated that she made him behave so disgracefully uncivilized. He looked deep into her and saw only himself. He let himself get lost wandering down the mascara lined corridors of her eyes. She held the key to the land that he fantasized of, a garden groomed into serene shapes of self. Her baby blue skies shined daylight on his frightened fetal figure. He wriggled up inside her with an eternal yearning to return to her womb.
The psychological transparency of his subconscious remained hidden beyond a veil weaved of sanctimonious delusion. He was drunk on the accumulating juices of his suppressed fruition, which was his finest tasting yet, aged well over a decade. Now convinced of his adequacy, he retreated back to his dejection of her, and rolled over to face his back at her.
Venus stood in a museum, fenced with men so that he could not reach her. He longed for her to glimpse over and see him standing there with the pathetic wide eyes of a child. She would turn and look down at him, and his limbs would desert his body in worship. His voice was paralyzed, and his throat choked him as he tried not to cry. Eventually, she would pick him up off the floor and nurse him back from nightmares of maternal abandon.
He awoke feeling hopelessly alone. She was still there, sleeping peacefully. He watched her purring with her back to him and exhaled a passionate whisper to her neck. He slipped his arm under hers, and wrapped himself around her forming a space-less embrace like two halves of a much larger puzzle.
