Saturday, April 23, 2005

Lamp

Okay, okay. I admit it. I over-reacted. M. Biologique was at a family friend's apple orchard, presumably frisking wild animals and smoking peace pipes or whatever hippies do when not knitting fashionable sweater sets made from naturally treated animal droppings. His mom asked him to drop by again before she returns to her current teaching position in Cincinnati. ("Uh, you wanna maybe cut your hair, son?") Except this time around, he's greeting her with a bag of dirty laundry.

Anyway. He thought against visiting me at 4 a.m., called me the following morning at 10, and by 12, we were making out on every available countertop and durable horizontal surface in his apartment. It takes a pretty creative pair to find pleasure in a washroom no bigger than a fist with dried up leaves and pine needles lovingly strewn around like a cancer cell with no social skills and a bad case of dementia. The brawny (?) swashbuckler had one arm wrapped around his lustfully frazzled tartlet, stirring marinara sauce with the other like a scene off the book jacket of an absurd novella targetting Boomer wives with deep emotional attachments with their kitchen appliances .

He asked me to accompany him on a house hunt.

"You know you're still," M. Biologique said when we exited The Body Shop, his arm falling away from my shoulders, "my sister, right?"

"Ewwww!" I giggled. "That's grossssss."

He playfully punched my arm.

"You know what I mean."

I looked up at him from behind my designer shades, expressionless. He grinned nervously. It wasn't until the next intersection did I open my mouth again to speak:

"Don't worry, [M. Biologique,]" I said looking ahead without making sure he was even listening. "If you want this to be a casual thing, it'll be a casual thing."

He sighed.

"It's not like there's any other way."

We watched Sin City. He grabbed my wrist mid-way through the movie and rested his eager hand on my thigh like the casual thing that I am.

I love it when my flames are fanned.

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