Me, 230 pounds, 5.9 feet, dark as midnight, hoarse voice, wide nose, nervous eyes, heavy chest and thick thighs. Anxiously navigating spaces, painfully aware of my awkwardness, my bulkiness. Always calculating, mapping out the farthest route from moveable objects. Hating the chaos of miscalculation; broken urn here – toppled off the credenza by a chest unrestrained by a brassiere- the creak of furniture every time I sit, stand, breathe. Misanthrope. Completely unequipped in transacting with humanity.
She calls me Little Girl. A joke (I think). Because big girls do not cry at least twice a day like I do.
It is everything about her. She is everything. Ethereal. Almond eyes, little feet. Quick wit, she chatters away about anything and with anyone. She sleeps soundlessly, and tucks herself in my every flaw. Perfectly. I couldn’t not love her if I tried.
She likes projects; they bore her in minutes. I love pancakes; she likes to make them. She collects the ingredients, sighs that the butter is frozen, microwaves it for a minute, sighs, pours it in the bowl, pours everything else in the bowl. She curses. She has totally lost interest. I can see her from the corner of my eye. She fleets over to me, covered in flour and feigned shame. Thrusting the bowl at me, eyes lowered coyly “Save me?”
I mix the batter, I make the pancakes, I fix her hair, I kiss her, I love her. I fuck her. She tells me stories of men she likes to fuck.
She is everything.
I cut a little deeper each time. She does not threaten to leave this time. She straddles my lap, pulls up my chin, pulls my hands to her lips, kisses my wounds and says, “Little Girl, if you cut again, am going to slit my wrists. And you know I can do it”.
Sundays mornings are my favorite. I make plans for the week then. I make plans to leave. I tell myself I will be okay without her. I plan a route in my mind. No moveable objects in my path. No humans on the way. The bed creaks loudly as I stand up, and in that startled moment the rug escapes my foot, my knees fold and I crash over the side table pulling the beddings with me.
She is awake. She is hangover. She is pissed. I know it. “Little Girl, why are you such a fuck up?” I cannot look at her. She knows what those words do to me. She jumps out of bed and comes to me. “Am sorry Babe. But you are always breaking shit…”
She is right you know. I am always falling, breaking, hurting and destroying. It is endless. It is ugly. I feel like an ogre. In that moment, I acknowledge my truth. I cannot leave. Who would love all this ugliness?
She loves me. She is everything. I am nothing. I love her.