Friday, March 18, 2011

Stop Talking, Idiot.

Poo, sex, toy poodles, is that all you can talk about? You’re an interesting guy, remember? You’ve seen bears, witnessed civil war, taken acid during the day at a family BBQ. There’s plenty to say, she barely knows you. Anything but more talk of how often you poo, or strange sex positions you saw in a book at the local ‘toy’ store. And certainly don’t mention the dog you want to own with her one day when you live together. It was funny at the start, now it’s just frightening. There’s more to talk about. Hmmm, never really noticed how short her stride was before, not that mine’s especially long.

“You have short legs.”

Great, exactly what a short girl wants to hear, that her legs are short. Sure she hasn’t noticed.

“They’re short, but they aren’t stumpy.”

Don’t look at her. That was stupid. She’s got really nice eyes. Round. Sort of like almonds. Why almonds? You hate when writers describe her eyes as almonds. Such bullshit.

“I know I have short legs.”

“You have really nice eyes. They’re round. And kind of like almonds. In colour, not shape. So I guess they are just brown, didn’t really need to say they look like a nut.”

“What are you talking about? Can you hold my icecream a second?”

Goddamn it’s hot and this serviette is saturated. Why am I holding her icecream?! It’s dripping right down my arm. Wish I had a hand free, but I don’t. What’s that on her arm?

“What’s that on your arm?”

“It’s nothing.”

Why’s she hiding her arm from me? It looks like mine. The mark looks like mine.

“Is that a birthmark?”

“I guess so. I hate it. It’s ugly. No one else seems to have one.”

Roll up your sleeve. Show her yours. Show her the mark on your arm that is almost identical; that you hate, that you think is ugly, that you hide. Tell her about all the co-incidences you’ve noticed. The number 13, knowing about number 6, interests, ambitions, sense of humour, dreams. Tell her you didn’t want her to leave, that it was a waste, that it was a shame how you’d only just met, that the arm wasn’t a mistake, neither was 13, or how you first hooked up. Nothing was a mistake. How you’d call him Eddy, he could be a poodle or whatever breed she wants. You’d buy him a collar, and make sure the terrace in Carlton had a big enough backyard that he could fetch and dig holes. Tell her the note you wrote about the ears and the starting to fall in love despite having only known her for two weeks wasn’t a lie. That it wasn’t a joke like you said. That you really did want to dance in a living room with her in 40 years time, hair sticking out of your ears, listening to Phoenix on iTunes 40.1.

“Don’t leave.”

“Leave where? What?”

“I’ve poo’d three times already today.”