Whenever my lover, and it is an old fashioned phrase stops by to meet me, arranging, inveterately, our unhabitual intersections, i am thrown into disarray. I rush around doing different things. A part of me reapplies the deoderant, the eggs in the fridge must be fresh, his favorite brand of coffee available. A multitude of confusions assail me. I scramble hither and thither, daubing ineffectually here, rearranging uselessly there. The more i seek to make things perfect the more chaotic they end up.
And the protracted waiting. He is never on time. His lateness paralyzes me. Where i could add finishing touches i recline restlessly, knotting and unknotting my fingers, beset with a nervous irritability. His arrival is usually an anticlimax. I have already traversed the whole gamut of anticipation and foreboding. I am resigned and calm. Perhaps this pleases him, alleviates any residual discomfiture on his part. Though if there was any discomfiture it would, at least, ensure his punctuality.
There is a masochism discernible in him. He likes to inflict pain to feel it. He's not quite sadistic. I think his boredom is too diffuse to allow for sadistic manouvres . And it is not only his lateness that bothers me but his detachment, his fundamental apathy. Even i, in all my resplendence, evoke a disaffected sigh as though the chief reason he fancies me is that i ameliorate his boredom though i am certain the pattern of our relationship bores him stiff.
Which is why my frenetic scramblings are undertaken to ensure that his sense of his own disaffection is retained. The calm front i present, with an impassive profile, surely redoubles that. Unbeknownst to him is my assiduous disengagement with my own effervescence, the split i feel between what i am before him and what i am to myself.
And in the midst of it all my essence is lost. What was that essence anyway. A dab of chanel to obliterate quotidian stench or an oleaginous texture in my brain that signals to me my being. I must be careful not to let the mask i put on for him become my reality. I prize my perspicuity. Without such self knowledge i would become an emanation of him. And once he looks in my mirror and finds himself he'll break it off because his boredom is predicated on an illusion of his specialness .
He has rung to say he is on his way. A heavy langour infuses my limbs. There are no eggs in the fridge, my armpits smell musky and the coffee machine is unwashed. There he is at the door, a full half hour earlier than expected.