She puts the hot sauce in the refrigerator. You’ve never understood that. It’s a gross parallel to you, cold and spicy. The kind of bizarre inversion that can swallow smaller universes. But it’s her place, although your ass has made a dent on her couch and your stink, barely favorable, is soaked in her pillows like salt water in dog fur.
An hour ago you were passed out on her floor in your underwear, your gut rounded, inflating and deflating as you crawl out of the coma the night before dropped you in. You notice a cover on the body half of your body that you certainly didn’t have the forethought to put on yourself. This is her doing. She’s on the couch, her long legs dangling off the couch and over your head like a chandelier.
Love is intricate, that’s what you say. She says it’s a natural thing. You tell her volcanoes are natural too. She says that the lava from volcanoes harden and formed the continents. You tell her you went to catholic school and that her radical scientific talk will land her in hell. You both laugh then she asks you why you think love is so hard and intricate.
She made omelets with bacon. You ask for hot sauce and she says in in the refrigerator, you cringe. She always looks at you take the first bite. People are always looking at you and it annoys you, it drives you to drink. Eyes are complex, and despite what people say, eyes aren’t windows to the soul but lasers that sear and confuse and annoy and drive men to drink. But when she looks at you its comforts you, it’s one of the complexities that love dulls. Love has honest eyes, maybe love is natural.
“Where did you get the eggs to make these omelets?” You ask.
“Burnham, but don’t change the subject, why is love so intricate?”
“Oh I havn’t this is all part of it.” You grin.
“Ahhh, an egg metaphor about love? Ok, go.”
“Yes a cheesy egg metaphor.” You say motioning with your fork to the cheesing oozing from the omelet. You sense you’re on a role and must strike while the iron is hot.
“Did you walk to Burnham?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t take a cab.” She rolls her eyes and eats her omelet. Burnham is only a block away for her apartment, of course she walked, your roll slows and the iron cools a bit. But that’s the sign of a good women, gracefully checking ego and putting it in the corner like a bad kid with ADD and a sugar rush. But even with that you’re still on a roll and your best words are like a avalanche, a giant snow ball that can still crush her.
“We’ll when you walked out side, you didn’t float into space did you?”
“Obviously.”
“And when you got to Burnham, and bought the eggs, did you think about the chicken they came from? Or where that Chicken came from, or where that Chicken came from?”
“Dinosaurs.” She says, unbeknownst to her, she done goofed.
“Exactly, giant fucking reptiles. What I’m saying is that, we exist in this space where everything is a giant mystery. Bricks and trains and fucking Asian children. All this is infinitely mysterious, we, well not we, but scientists, scientists have theories on how all this shit works but nobody really knows, and we brave this gigantic mystery every time we go out to get eggs, who knows what will happen. Purple smoke can come out of the ground and turn us all into golf balls. And we won’t know what happened until years later some scientists will come up with an some ridicules explanation and we, well not we because we will be golf balls, but everyone else will believe it and that will be one of the many mysteries people don’t even question while they walk out into gravity that can suck water into space as we text on our cell phones and can hold thousands of songs and send verbalized love across the sky and shoes…rubber, how does rubber work.”
“Okay crazy, now what’s love got to do with it.“ She gives you that look that solider come back form war masturbate too.
“What’s love got to do with it? Everything. What is everyone’s ultimate goal at the end of the day, its love. All this shit was created, fuck, gravity was ordained by the gods so that when we kiss we don’t float into space and imploded. If you weren’t hear, I wouldn’t need a cell phone, or rubber soled shoes and that hat that was spun from fabric that comes out of worms asses, to keep my hair in order. All these mysteries are put in place so that we can find love and procreate and take pictures. All this complicated shit, that we consider natural , and love right in the center, imagine how complicated that shit has to be.” You finish while shaking your head and grumbling.
She stays silent for a minute then kisses you. A good woman, you’ve always though, has the ability to turn the valve in your mind, she can open the flood gates. This one does that for you, you look at her. She says something to contest you, it probably made sense, but you were only sort of listening, your omelet got cold, and the hot sauce got warm.
She turns on Ru Paul’s Drag Race on the TV, and you ask her to switch to Cops when the commercial is on.
