The Sinking Bed: Part 2 (fiction)

She comes up and there is a past self still in your bones hiding in the marrow that wants to engage her the way she wants to be. She tells me my shirt is good, that she likes it. She wants me to look in her eyes and be masculine, but not too pretentious. She wants me to say something funny and then only half smile and look at her with slanted, but knowing eyes, but I can’t. I don’t have the energy. I want to tell her all the wrong things. I want to tell her I was molested at eight years old, that I’ve already been married and divorced, that I gain and loose 35 to 40 pounds regularly, that my last girlfriend slept with two of friends and the thought of a relationship makes me want to tuck my tail between and lay my head on a stick of dynamite. I want to tell her that I find her interesting, that she looks athletic, that I’d like to get to know her. I want to warn her that every relationship I’ve ever had ends poorly and if the two of us got involved that one day we would most certainly not be friends sometime in that future. I don’t want her to laugh when I say that I’m ok with this. I want her to believe that some people have a dark raincloud that follows them around like a cartoon, but that I accept the chaos and wrap it around me like hot wet towel around my head.