I got high this morning before I remembered that
it was Valentine’s Day. Really one has nothing to do with the other except
perhaps for what happened as a result of my being truly dazed and
confused. It was quite a batch of shit, heavy enough to send me into a lie
on the floor and ponder life for hours on end kind of deal. Heavy enough
to grant me revelation.
Oh sweet revelation.
It hit me at
two in the afternoon on the deadliest and most commercial of all holidays.
Love is not the enemy. It is illusive, sure. It was in short supply my
whole life, yes. It is overestimated and under delivered and 99% of the
time pure lies and total crap, you bet. But the real kind, the rare kind,
the true kind…it is something to be earned and revered. It is like
professional status and fine automobiles and beautiful homes. It is part
of a trifecta of sorts: money, beauty and love. The Holy fucking Trinity.
It is not, I have finally realized, the enemy.
So with that
diatribe looping in my brain I decide that, after all this (after
everything, and God has there been some shit) that is high time to tell
him. And not only is it high time it’s past due. So far past due that only
two options for the reveal are even close to appropriate. Option A would
be something so incredibly subtle that only he would pick up on it.
Something light and barely there like a fall wind brushing the bare skin
of his perfect lily white ass as it poured in a crack of an open window.
Option B would be something so fucking over the top that it gives him a
goddamned heart attack. Something loud and insane and public…oh yes,
public. Something that is so fucking preposterous it is almost
mocking.
Option A is so me. It’s so fucking Kinney that I can
hardly stand it. Option B it is.
And then there are roses, in red
because I like the color of blood being synonymous with the color of love,
how fitting. And in white because he said once that he ‘adored white
roses’ (who adores white roses?) There is jewelry because doesn’t there
need to be jewelry? Not a ring, a ring is…well it’s trite, but a bracelet.
Because he has hands that should be looked at and smooth, perfect wrists
that don’t show marks from the battles he’s fought, but there have been
many. It will have an inscription that will mean something only to us,
something he will smile at every time he reads it. Something like “What a
one night stand…” but better…brilliant.
I’ll do it during the
dinner rush, everyone will be there. I’ll walk in clad in the black
four-button Armani that makes him cream his pants with a red shirt and tie
to match the fucking gorgeous roses. I’ll dump the flowers at his feet and
get down on one knee. They’ll choke on their chicken before I say a word.
The drinks he’s about to deliver will drop from his hands. The liquid will
bead on the rose petals. His smile will shine brighter than the first time
I made him come. I’ll tell him, in front of the fucking world, that I
don’t want to live a life without him in it.
He’ll put the bracelet
on. We’ll clean up the roses. Deb will tell him to ‘get the fuck out of
here’ and we’ll leave. We’ll breathe each other in, his back pressed to
the brick wall, in the alley behind the diner where I left the car. He’ll
whisper my name over and over as he clutches me. He’ll be the one at a
loss for words, for once.
I’ll tell him that it turns out love is not the enemy and he will nod. He will
understand me. He has always understood me.
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