Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Inside the evil lair

As it stands, I still stubbornly refuse to relinquish the notion that what I have with MArt is illegit, whereas he is appeasing my every hesitation to prevent me from following through on my neurotic impulses (like running off in the cloak of night. Albeit, in Prada mules).

I don't want to leave him; he's my antipode. I like that he makes me feel completely at ease. An anchor of a man, mellow and forgiving, he's ... s'wonderful.

There is a crisis a-brewing in Lill(y)put, a problem of epic proportions: Life. is. freakin' perfect. I don't know when this 5-alarm, snore-a-thon happened. Between bankrupting my mother in my heedless quest for shoes and taking precautionary EC pills (because in Canada, pharmacists don't confuse their profession with the priesthood), who would have thought existential tides could be so tidy?

We were in the midsts of love-making when an unintentional laugh escaped from the chasms of his lungs.

"What were you thinking?" I asked.

"Nothing, nothing. It's stupid."

"What?" I insisted.

MArt looked at me ponderously from below, cocking his head to one side, and smiled meekly. I did the same and gently brushed hair from my eyes, waiting for his reply in a motionless standstill. He put his hands on my naked hips and warned me not to over-react. I nodded in anticipation of "beer," "hockey," or "Zelda."

"You're beautiful."

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