Monday, January 3, 2011
“Making Love Outta Nothing at All”
“Sara said…” (insert such and such).
“Oh she agrees with me good!” (Glee is more than a TV show).
“And Audra did…” (insert so and so).
“Oh that’s great I can’t wait to see it!”
“Did you read Daisy’s joke?”
“Doughboy? Yep, hilarious!”
But I wasn’t at the desktop nor she at the laptop. We were in bed. Lying down. She on her back. Me on my stomach. Just talking. No computers. Talking about nothing in particular. Talking more to a “who” than about any “what”.
Out of the background Law and Order interjects. It’s not an interruption. It’s provision for what’s happening:
“No, gwilty”, a patented bastardization of the English.
“Not guiiiiiilty”, as if a sing-song would make it so.
“Gwiiiiiilty! Gwilty, gwilty, gwilty.” The pronunciation as irritating as the opinion.
I flip onto my back and, as if connected by gears, she – onto her stomach. My thirsty hand falls upon her behind. SMACK!
Out of the future the coming year penetrates and takes its place as impromptu fodder for this everyday confabulation:
“I have so much to do today.”
“Don’t over do it today.”
“I’m starting my new diet.”
“Take it easy at the gym today.”
“I’m not doing too bad. I’ve only put on 4 pounds.”
“We have a great future behind you. Don’t go and ruin it y'hear?”
She subtly pushes our aforementioned “future” up to drink a squeeze from my hand.
"The more the merrier."
The ingrained ritual is now complete. But it’s not a prelude to having sex today. But that doesn't mean love isn't being made. Actually, love IS being made.
Don’t think I didn’t want to. I did. I certainly felt like it. We’d been doing it like rabbits lately. But I just wanted to talk – about nothing. Talk about nothing in particular. Talk more to a “who” than about any what”.
That is how love is made.