She doesn't really love me. We have been living together six months, and you would think that after a year of dating and a half year more of sharing a home something genuine and sweet would be forged, but no. I see our love as something quite different. Demented, I would say.
She tells me how happy it makes her to have me with her during our evenings at home, and she rubs my hand as if to prove it; but the hand-rubbing does not take away from the sinister import of her words, even if they are so brilliantly disguised that I dare not challenge them for fear of sounding illogical. Then I remember how Sherlock Holmes always seemed crazy, blaming a violent murder on an old hag pulling a tattered blanket behind her. Yet he was the biggest hero of all when he tore that head-wrap away and revealed a scowling hoodlum beneath. And even if I might not have the courage to make my accusations out loud, I know in her words there is hiding many a scowling hoodlum.
She cozies up to me as we lie in bed and she tells me goodnight, leaving her arm in a loose hold across my chest. This casual move, emulating fondness, is her tactic for stealing my warmth. At night I am an electric blanket, powered by the blood of my forefathers who fought to ensure my place in this world. Well, here I am, proud progenitors, using only your genes that were fit enough for survival in order to digest my dinner fast enough to heat a sleepy woman. She must get such a kick out of it. I imagine her monologues in the kitchen during that mysterious hour of preparation: Have more carrots, fool of my eye. Keep that circulation going. May ye never wake from your warmth-producing slumber, she incants as the potatoes are dashed with a fistful of minced garlic. Meanwhile I sprawl on the couch in the living room, steeped in ignorance. I have no idea what is going on.
When I tell her I love her, she smiles with satisfaction. She sweeps up my love right as it passes my lips; and then the effect on her is something like a street drug. A shiver runs through her as she falls into my arms-so graceful have her improvisational skills become in the art of taking a little warmth when she needs it. And then, contented, she professes her love for me and gives my back a placating rub. Of course. The way you act, giving up on loving me would require some kind of accredited program. Sickening. Just telling her I love her makes me feel, at times, like a Puerto Rican dealer. Maybe worse, since I actually hang around to see the adverse effect of my wares. The second I bear my love to her, the second I set it on the coffee table-it is gone. If I could only say it so many times in my life she would burn through them all in a month probably. Then she would grab me by the shirt, begging me and stealing my warmth at the same time; but I could only manage frenzied, raised eyebrows and a slack-jawed frown as I suffer my agonizing muteness, my punishment for her surfeit.
Unfortunately though, I am an unlimited supply of that drug. And there's no paranoia, and it doesn't make you go cross-eyed-what a dream come true! Every time I tell her I love her, I get to see that glint come into her eyes and the smile as it crosses her face. It makes me wince. I swear from that moment on that my oaths of love will not be an instrument of pleasure for this profligate careerwoman. I know that one day I will come home and find that all my records are gone, sold off: and the proceeds from my possessions, a meager sum acquired in desperation, have been spent all over town, buying me an entire childhood's worth of love-inducing gifts. I can't even think about it without closing my eyes.
The worst part is that I know she would stay with me to the very ends of our lives. She has no intention of relenting, and no reason to; I doubt she has ever heard the word "clemency." She will play this game forever, waking up beside me with a smile on her face because the space-heater that gives practical feedback to her thoughts is still here.
I even visited her at work once. Photos of us together on the desk: I saw them all right away, and she made no move to hide them. Does she revel in this constant reminder of what we have, does she get all this bonus joy out of our relationship when I'm not even around? To me a relationship is sacred, like a vow of silence. In fact, in my day-to-day dealings I rarely let on that I am romantically involved with anyone.
And Lord knows I am just not strong enough to expose the situation for what it is: this woman has been brainwashed by society, by anatomy, by art, by the sayings of Benjamin Franklin, even by her own convoluted psychology, into believing that it is perfectly fine to keep someone around indefinitely for companionship, for support, to give one the opportunity to express love and do nice things. Essentially she is using me in order to get the most basic pleasures out of life, and she is taking me down to her level.
Nonetheless, I walked right into this situation over the past year and a half. Every night went so well that I thought: "Why not have another?" Now it is simply too late to break the pattern. I am in it for the long haul. I have my own reasons.
She tells me how happy it makes her to have me with her during our evenings at home, and she rubs my hand as if to prove it; but the hand-rubbing does not take away from the sinister import of her words, even if they are so brilliantly disguised that I dare not challenge them for fear of sounding illogical. Then I remember how Sherlock Holmes always seemed crazy, blaming a violent murder on an old hag pulling a tattered blanket behind her. Yet he was the biggest hero of all when he tore that head-wrap away and revealed a scowling hoodlum beneath. And even if I might not have the courage to make my accusations out loud, I know in her words there is hiding many a scowling hoodlum.
She cozies up to me as we lie in bed and she tells me goodnight, leaving her arm in a loose hold across my chest. This casual move, emulating fondness, is her tactic for stealing my warmth. At night I am an electric blanket, powered by the blood of my forefathers who fought to ensure my place in this world. Well, here I am, proud progenitors, using only your genes that were fit enough for survival in order to digest my dinner fast enough to heat a sleepy woman. She must get such a kick out of it. I imagine her monologues in the kitchen during that mysterious hour of preparation: Have more carrots, fool of my eye. Keep that circulation going. May ye never wake from your warmth-producing slumber, she incants as the potatoes are dashed with a fistful of minced garlic. Meanwhile I sprawl on the couch in the living room, steeped in ignorance. I have no idea what is going on.
When I tell her I love her, she smiles with satisfaction. She sweeps up my love right as it passes my lips; and then the effect on her is something like a street drug. A shiver runs through her as she falls into my arms-so graceful have her improvisational skills become in the art of taking a little warmth when she needs it. And then, contented, she professes her love for me and gives my back a placating rub. Of course. The way you act, giving up on loving me would require some kind of accredited program. Sickening. Just telling her I love her makes me feel, at times, like a Puerto Rican dealer. Maybe worse, since I actually hang around to see the adverse effect of my wares. The second I bear my love to her, the second I set it on the coffee table-it is gone. If I could only say it so many times in my life she would burn through them all in a month probably. Then she would grab me by the shirt, begging me and stealing my warmth at the same time; but I could only manage frenzied, raised eyebrows and a slack-jawed frown as I suffer my agonizing muteness, my punishment for her surfeit.
Unfortunately though, I am an unlimited supply of that drug. And there's no paranoia, and it doesn't make you go cross-eyed-what a dream come true! Every time I tell her I love her, I get to see that glint come into her eyes and the smile as it crosses her face. It makes me wince. I swear from that moment on that my oaths of love will not be an instrument of pleasure for this profligate careerwoman. I know that one day I will come home and find that all my records are gone, sold off: and the proceeds from my possessions, a meager sum acquired in desperation, have been spent all over town, buying me an entire childhood's worth of love-inducing gifts. I can't even think about it without closing my eyes.
The worst part is that I know she would stay with me to the very ends of our lives. She has no intention of relenting, and no reason to; I doubt she has ever heard the word "clemency." She will play this game forever, waking up beside me with a smile on her face because the space-heater that gives practical feedback to her thoughts is still here.
I even visited her at work once. Photos of us together on the desk: I saw them all right away, and she made no move to hide them. Does she revel in this constant reminder of what we have, does she get all this bonus joy out of our relationship when I'm not even around? To me a relationship is sacred, like a vow of silence. In fact, in my day-to-day dealings I rarely let on that I am romantically involved with anyone.
And Lord knows I am just not strong enough to expose the situation for what it is: this woman has been brainwashed by society, by anatomy, by art, by the sayings of Benjamin Franklin, even by her own convoluted psychology, into believing that it is perfectly fine to keep someone around indefinitely for companionship, for support, to give one the opportunity to express love and do nice things. Essentially she is using me in order to get the most basic pleasures out of life, and she is taking me down to her level.
Nonetheless, I walked right into this situation over the past year and a half. Every night went so well that I thought: "Why not have another?" Now it is simply too late to break the pattern. I am in it for the long haul. I have my own reasons.