fear stagnancy

her soft brown eyes, ponderous lips and harvard diploma discarded aimlessly behind volumes of yellowed architectural digests promised me something. she saw through it all. and she knew she needed to separate the two of us for things to even begin to work. she knew we wouldn't progress with both of us objecting in the same room. she's expensive, but maybe it'll be worth it. maybe she'll help us salvage what there once was.

and he stands in the doorway, points at his cock and thinks that's connecting. maybe she'll direct him inward.

across the grounds today, i imagined a camera poised to show him that i could at least feign the sophistication he so lauded, steep heels, flowy-legged, ass-tight black pants, hugging silk spaghetti-strapped top, and beads lapping my almost-cleavage. and my professional spiel blew them all away. shortly, i will become the biggest, brightest fish in their slowly expanding pond. and some of them hate me for it, this sophistication. still, the part he didn't touch long, the part i have to squelch to pretend i give a damn about the financial aspect of the health care model he presented in his foolish semi-eloquence this morning is the part that wants instead to kick the heels from her heavy hooves and feel the grass, too long untrimmed prickly against her calves, bare from having shed the cloak of sophistication slowly as she moved, watching her chirp loudly and pluck curvy, lustrous radishes i nourished with my hands and perfectly cultivated soil from their green burrows, watching him, ears flapping wildly, streams of saliva glistening in his jowls, running towards me, completely smitten. because i'd rather win over a 120 lb dog than rigid, brooks brothersed him and his poorly chosen necktie. because i'd rather express than impress.

and he, distraught this afternoon because he wasn't chosen first, because he was passed over for someone else, in his mind someone lesser, and this monumental bruise to his ego i cannot begin to touch because i am not who he strives so frantically to astound. and this is 7/8 of our problem. a solution would require he first discover his own ego. he, downtrodden, forgetting that grass exists, annoyed by the dirt flying from the radishes she swings, hollering about the drool drops, brushing, brushing, brushing the smudges of affection from the neat creases of his grey suit. bare and languid, i look on. beyond. i can't touch where he is.

his words: raw, shocking, emotional, little weird, flattering.

and moi, just hoping it won't stale.