Last week I went out with this girl...kinda put my head through the ceiling, somewhere short of the moon, but still. No fault of her own.
I thought she was a beautiful, admirably guarded…for stretches potentially remarkable. Though my years are few, my woes in the game of love weigh heavy. You could say it has left me somewhat colder, hesitant, apathetic. Others call me fucking bastard. Beauty of the game -- many can relate, none in the same. But this girl, something in her left me unwound.
And not just because I’m a seasonal lover.
We went out last week. I believed it to be borderline electric. You know, when a kiss is enough because there’ll be another day. Another day…I don’t often think in such a manner.
When that another day finally came (62 minutes ago), something in the air seemed heavy, significantly heavier than it was during our previous encounter. She was prepping for this tumble and I could feel it. Every line and word falling from our lips was only there as filler, something to dance around the scent of inevitable and it was maddening.
Now that hindsight is my friend, I can say I was hoping her confession to be anything other than what it was. You're a bigot? Passionate. Intolerant? Focused. Monger for power? Determined. Moral shortcomings? Join the team...hell, I'm captain.
But alas and of course, it was something else, something that took a knife to my Achilles and cut it through. Her confession, her word…
Celibacy.
Celibacy? Celibacy. Celibacy? Celibacy... ... ... Celebacy? Celebacy.
Again…thanks pal.
