– Excuse me but I’ve got to ask: are you only being nice because you want something?
– Well, I guess we’ll overanalyze it together my neurotic, pessimistic significant other…
As the fingers caress the soft round spot of the cheeks where the lack of hairs make him undeniably human and fragile, an essay begins. Of feelings, or rather, hormones that beg to be organized in line as if pallid elephants arranging a caravan, a last minute trip to cross the continent. For the obsessive-compulsive disorder comes one step closer every time the books are organized by colour and the intolerance reaches new levels for any kind of mess that is not personally owned.
The rules are simple – they are assumptions in test, as you and I, waiting for stickers of empirical approval. One might perhaps label them as anxiety pacifiers, as Annie kissing Alvy Singer before the dinner in order to make the meal more edible, indeed. Actually, labelling is the first – introduce by the name itself, the one that still holds an unbearable pride that insists in staying and that prevents of being anything else but itself. Or is it better to shy the H. away and merely accept the title with a proper modest gaze? A couple of beings that peeked me through would risk an explanation pointing to the alignment of stars. But then again, the arbitrariness of nature is yet another trigger to pump a bulky, familiar anxiety. It’s simple, really: just don’t fuck me over. I mean, please fuck me daddy in the ways only you know, with the smirk as a side portion for anatomy commentary and sharp instincts that sniff the perimeter. Traces of cigarette and shampoo still reek from the pillows but not from the Blue Vice, also known as social media, that insists in offering tags neatly disposed in a schtick holder – identity collectors as if badges from Magic championships, name tags from feminist symposiums, tokens of friendships that last more than the person that disastrously realized their mistake after trying the temperature with their pinky toe.
Sharing the emotional baggage is only advised as long as each one is willing and able to carry their own load, and eventually volunteer as a sidekick for dusting the memories. As long as you don’t say the words, everything will be fine. It will, right, my dear? You know, the one that starts with L, not liver, not lungs; the one that promises laurels and whispers stability. And yes, I think it remains true regardless of the amount of intimacies shared, assembling on top of each other as the days go by, the impossible shape eventually coming across with the law of gravity and falling over the still fragile stem, unaware of its own wilting.
Dexterity is this thing I have always lacked, even more noticeable when changing gears that precede a slower rhythm or a slight curve. Nine years ago, precisely, the sturdy driving instructor explained for what could be the tenth time, but now reaching a new decibel scale, that angles require, at least, the stop of acceleration. Preferably being followed by some previous turn of the wheel, some mild breaking, some checking on the side mirrors. Did he not understand the seriousness of sweat as a sabotaging lubricant of grip? Not like we need it, far from that – for liquids may, from time to time, configure stains of love. No, my dear cynical, occasional contortionist, beauty mark appreciator. One needs to foresee the turns of the road, resting but ready, remaining with the right humidity of pores, balanced with the aid of light moisturizer for sensitive skin. One should be able to use their guts instead of dictionaries as a loyal compass, or breathe worries away and just wait for what comes as we do with mugs filled with steaming earl grey that will soon and certain be ready for appreciation.
Two-way streets are one of the most reputable analogies for relationships, even the ones that purposefully, smartly avoid the infamous L word. However straight and uneventful the cement may be, it is always accompanied by signs and drawings, arrows and symbols, an imperceptible but effective presence, a holy thing itself completing the magnanimous Trinity. Our personal third, our even to make it right, this extra little mysterious something that has no name and is but two days old, what shall we call it? Joy, pretty Joy, sweet present Joy that brings smiles, as we sing awhile.