The Dance

A perverse pleasure engulfs me in my knowing of how easily I can hurt her, how I can ruin her day with a simple word, a snarky retort, or a piercing silence. I distaste this side of myself somewhat, this puerile vengeful aspect. This is because I am learning to embrace myself, with all my sharp and dark corners, the ones that have dug into her sides often. I endeavor to occasionally escape them, to inhabit the warmth she loves to bask in, as often as I can, without losing myself. I cede around her to her, the way I am doing now, content to go with her flow. I wonder if she feels the same way I feel when she goes quiet, when she pushes me away.

She takes my hand in hers and caresses it gently and coos,

You are so warm. Why are you so warm?

Because I don’t have a cold heart.

She pulls away, bristling. I laugh and put my arm around her then stroke her back reassuringly. The evil mirth threatens to undo me. I do not even pretend to apologize. I am not sorry. This is a victory for me, after all her spurns.

I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I’m warm. Maybe I’m just the right temperature and you’re the one who’s cold-blooded.

That was mean, I admit, but it felt so good, the equivalent of a fist-pump in the face of her constant rebuffs. She sighs heavily and looks out of the window, seemingly resigned to my jabs, as if she exists in a permanent state of penance for what she did, or rather, for what she is currently doing, of which there is nothing wrong. I know this, but I refuse to admit it in front of her.

I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. I want to enjoy our friendship first and make it deeper and more meaningful. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m scared I won’t control myself when I’m alone with you.

Isn’t it deep enough already? I want to go waaaaay deeper *knowing wink* I know you like me and I like you back. What’s the problem? And that’s kind of the point why we’re here, right? To let ourselves go completely with each other?

I just need some time, okay? Please try and understand. With time I’m sure you will. Please, for me?

I pull my arm away, exasperated. Why do I even bother? Time? We do not have time. She takes my hand in hers again. Somehow, through the trepidation, it feels preternatural, to be with her again, to feel this natural with her like this. I wish this was that first time, I wish that this was back then and we were the people we are now. Things would be so different, none of this capering around our tenderness for each other. At this point two platitudes come to mind,

Be careful what you wish for.

The heart wants what it wants.

They come across as pathetic. How can one be careful and take a leap at the same time? Of-cussing-course the heart wants what it wants. If it did not, it would not want it, now would it? Even so, the words tug at a part of my heart, the cautious and yearning part, the one that wants but fears that it will get what it wants and would not be deserving. The coward. I push the hesitation to the back of my mind. And I try again…

So, are you still chotaing me tonight (taking me home for a one-nighter) ? I’m like so available it’s not even funny.

Uhm. I can’t. I won’t even tell you where I live. You might follow me. *heavy sigh* Please don’t do this. Don’t make it any harder than it is.

By the time you’re comfortable enough to invite me over, you’ll have moved,  again I’m sure, so no worries.

I smirk and it morphs into a smile. She does have that way with me, always drawing the light out from within. I pretend to be calm about it,

I’m really trying to keep my hands to myself. I’m really trying to understand. I hope I do, soon.

And, thus, the dance continues…

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