Friday, December 10, 2004

Tender Places

Overheard through a thin wall

"What the hell do you really want?" she asked impatiently.

"I want tenderness," he said irritably.

"Oh, is that all?"

"That's it."

"But the world isn't a tender place!" she insisted. "Maybe when we were young. Hardly ever, any more.”

"We're one step removed from being animals?" he said.

She couldn't tell if he was agreeing or disagreeing, if he was being honestly cynical or just cryptically ironic. Certainly he wasn't actually asking her a question.

"Now what the hell does that mean?" she snapped. "Are you quoting from something or what?"

"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything," he said irritably.

"Well, that's just great!" she said. Now she was irritated. "You want to talk, but you only want to talk about it the way you want to talk!" Her face was red, she was furious.

"Things ought to make more sense than this," she thought. He thought so, too. They both said nothing.

They both thought too much. They fought too much, as well. Later they'd have sex and everything would be all right again. Everything would be wonderful, until the next time they argued together so cleverly without knowing what it was about.

"Jefferson begged for letters, from his wife and daughters as well as from his friends, and wrote in bitter protest when they were not forthcoming as often as he expected." — Fawn M. Brodie (Thomas Jefferson biographer)

No comments:

Post a Comment

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)