Sleeping in a Triangle
I'm exhausted. I'm exhausted of always being on around him. Always smiles, nods and great giggles. I actually catch myself winking. Puns, banters, one-liners, all non-stop. I'm scared to stop. I suppose I'm scared to stop because if I do he might learn that I'm not that interesting, that I'm not that interested in much. That I'm perfectly content, no happy, with Netflix, Hunan Munan on speed dial, discount shopping and falling asleep on top of my comforter on a Sunday afternoon. Most my cooking utensils still have their stickers on them. I have contraceptives in my nightstand drawer that are expired. My refrigerator drawers have nothing in them. My toes are always colored because they're stained ochre from always coloring them. I'm quicker to pick up a magazine than a novel.
What if we crawl into bed one night, I put down Little Women and open up an issue of Australian Vogue and he sees me doggy-earing the pages fervently. Will he find it less than monotonous the way I find some of his music. Or undesirable like how his efforts with his friends seem to have surpassed his efforts with me. Or discomforting like how we pass up moments of romance because of the risk of being trite and ordinary.
Or, will he find it endearing? Like the way I find him carrying around a harmonica during winter months in his toggle-coat inner pocket only to be pulled out at a vacant subway station. How just a couple curls peek out from under his beenie. How his hair is starting to silver. How some of his text messages make me actually laugh out loud in my cube. Cooking in boxer breifs, well done. How his hands palm my back fittingly. How he sleeps diagonally on my bed causing me to curl up and sleep in a triangle and I haven't minded.
It would be nice to stretch though. Lay it all out there. Until then, Vogue face down, Little Women face up.