(originally posted 11/18/2019)
It was the way she said it. More of a question than a statement. The small smile that bordered on a smirk. The shrug of the shoulders.
“I’m sorry… ?”
A restless heart you can accept. Its understandable. Relatable and almost endearing. On the other hand, a rambunctious vagina is a deal-breaker.
Bars. Parties. Men gather like some sad cross between wolves and vultures (wultures? the only animal that doesn’t know when its lying?) at the intersections of rambunctious vaginas and alcohol. It’s the equivalent of standing outside of a woman’s prison and greeting the ex-convicts with flowers, chocolates and edible underwear as they are being released.
The hunting is good.
I gave up drinking a while ago. My restless heart has been incarcerated for almost a year now. Three meals a day and exercise in the yard. It’s a good life as metaphors go.
I met her at work. It started there. We were both puzzles waiting to be put together. In her case I couldn’t see the picture until the final piece. As it slid into place it was like one of those bad movies where everyone watching clutches their chest and gasps “I never saw that coming.”
I never saw it coming.
Which, as you might guess, she saw coming. My picture had been pretty clear from the outset. Maybe I need more pieces. My edges remain incomplete; empty loops and sockets, knobs and holes, tabs and slots, keys and locks (the four interconnecting options for puzzle pieces… you’re welcome for that), all longing for something or someone to connect with.
Her edges were worn smooth. Should have been my first clue really.
Her picture? A man and woman standing in the Garden of Eden, with “The Tree of Life” behind the man and “The Tree of Knowledge” behind the woman.
A tarot card.
Upright or reversed I know my trees dammit, I really should have seen it coming.