You look like the Hawaïan beauty in some commercial for shampoo, who jumps under a waterfall like a tanned nimble dolphin with her black hair full of soap. Well, at least during a shower. You shower a lot. You use up the daily ration of warm water all by yourself. Some people seek the limit by going on a survival tour through the Australian desert. You get your adrenaline kicks in more mundane ways. You like ordering the most expensive dish on the menu, you like booking rooms in boat hotels only three streets from our block. The only thing you don't spend huge amounts on are clothes. You always wear the same outfit. I never met a woman with such a minimalistic wardrobe. When we travel your suitcase is smaller than mine. “Why are you hogging all those books?”, you ask me. “Leave some to the other library geeks. They don't do you any good. They don't make you any smarter.” Smarter in your world means: making more money. And no, you're right, if there was a link between reading books and making money I'd be a millionaire by now.

“Stop reading books. You need to merge more. With life people, not dead authors. Those books are only written to make the publishers rich and to make the writers look smart. Don't think you're smart because you read, because you're not.”

“It's my curse that I fall for opinionated women”, I say.

“Oh, don't do that, please don't do that. Your self-pity makes me gag.”

I'm not sure why I'm with you. It can't be just your beauty. On the train to work I see women at least as beautiful as you are. Objectively speaking.

Some of my friends wonder why I get to have pretty girls like you. But it's a fairly easy trick. It's easier to get you, than it would be to get a less physically attractive girl. I recognize the type. The woman alone on her throne. The nice guys don't impress you, and the bad guys are too threathening. Which leaves a loop-hole for me. The erractic mix. The passive-agressive kind. Your outward dominance and your inward insecurity, my outward insecurity and meekish ways and inward smugness and cruel lust. On the one hand I reassure you and the other hand I scare you just enough to excite you. There's attraction, sure, but there's no real connection, no harmony.

It ends when I get too arrogant outwardly and too insecure inwardly. A law of communicating vessels, of course.

Or it ends, when I stop returning your calls, submerge and dissapear. All in keeping with my passive-agressive nature.

“What happened to this latest one? Nina was it?”

“No, Pia.”

“Well, I knew she was named after one of Colombus' ships.”

“That was the Pinta.”

“When did you date a girl named Pinta?”

“I didn't.”

“So, anyway, what happened to this Pia?”

“She was a tiny bit too generous with her harsh comments.”

“Why do you always pick these cold-blooded chicks?”

“They're not cold-blooded in bed.”

“Still, you know what I mean.”

“I don't know. Secretly I hope some of their firmness and emotional stability rubs off on me.”

“Then pick a nice, solid one, someone you can lean on.”

“A: they're never hot. B: I'm not their type.”

I like the storm too much. And the restlessness in between the storms. And being out there, like a tree, naked in the field, and feel the storm gathering around me, how it slowly intensifies, until it's all upon me, and I'm there, flirting with disaster. It's hard to fuck the demons out of a woman when she has none to begin with.

11-03-2012 om 13:45 geschreven door Tederdraads