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By Misti Date: 2004 Feb 22 Comment on this Work [[2004.02.22.04.53.9001]] |
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We eat Mexican food at our favorite restaurant. I devour my rolled tacos. He nibbles on his fish tacos. I swig Corona from the bottle. He sips his Diet Coke. We talk about my brother's latest concerned phone call. "Dude, I know you're intelligent, but you've got to make sure Misti goes to church." Everyone wants Misti to go to church and play nice and get healed and stop having these weird fucked up nightmares about being a teenager again, talking back to the stepdad and hating the mom and sister. You know the subtext. The waitress asks me if I want another Corona. I look at you, you smile ruefully, say,"Go ahead." You tell me I can't say no. The law of averages dictates that sooner or later I will find a sleazy man who smells my desperation and snaps me up like Jaws. Then, you tell me, you'll send me back home to Mom. Broken, defective...a bad bride. Needs new batteries. Needs God and chicken fried steak. You are mistaken. I tell you how mistaken you are. I will not return to the life I knew before you. I will not beg for forgiveness or understanding. I will take the money and run and I will never look back. We don't hear each other anymore. We aren't precious to each other. But after passing out from two beers I awake and hear you talking to me in your snores. I caress your face and kiss you. You rub your feet together in your sleep. You always do that when you're nervous. |