Pardon the Personal Territory

He's not thinking of me today. The clasp on my necklace stays high up on my neck, unflinching. It never swivels down towards my chest--the surest sign that someone, somewhere is thinking of you. I always attribute the superstition to my lover.

I suppose it's understandable this afternoon. Why would he want to think of my dismal, moping attitude? He is highly opposed to depression, being that he is a constantly optimistic Sagittarius--one who, no matter how many times he's let down, will still have something to look forward to. I wish I could adopt a similar attitude. Today, I've adopted the defense mechanism of locking up. I refuse to blame or want or fight. I can't say I haven't cried. I can't say that I haven't gone through at least a thousand versions of the same conversation in my head...every outcome undesirable, some to the extent that my stomach cramps up with anxiety and fear for the future.

I keep picturing him out and about, flirting, conversing, pretending, (or maybe convincingly pretending,) that our unsettling conversation this morning is not pressing against the back of his neck. Tightening, a series of muscles. A highway of brain stem matter and stress. I can imagine such a headache, I have one on a monthly basis, sometimes stretching for days. My biggest gripe for the here and now is my drowsiness. An all-consuming desire to sleep away the desire to stay awake and analyze.

What an unfortunate mess. An optimistic Sagittarius that has no desire to explore. Europe? Too dirty. Besides,he was born in Germany. What does it matter that relatives exist on the coasts of the United Kingdom? What could possibly be interesting about Hartlepool? The Outback, now there's a place he'd like to see. Perhaps. But the sprawling dust of Fort Davis? "Can I fish there? What's in it for me? Besides, well, I've any number of excuses. The landscapers, money, oh and by the way, the 4th of July has always been my, you know, party holiday."

Thus, my desire to mope. The overwhelming burden of uncommon ground. It's symptoms are infinite and merciless. When asked my plans for the weekend, I simply say, "To sulk." Nothing else seems as simple or as natural as a dive into that warm familiar bath. Perhaps I can pretend, convincingly, that all is well and good. And perhaps it will be so. But it will surely be hours after the water has turned cold, and my fingers are as wrinkled as old prunes.