The moments in which I am frustrated exceed those that I am not. Was it not but a week ago where we reconciled? Where my body had one of those nights she will never forget?
Last night you danced with me to Fonseca. Moments before, Jorge spun me around effortlessly; my legs and hips performing the salsa perfectly. But with you, I had two left feet. You had patience. I stepped on your sock. Don’t move your hips. Just your feet. Painful minutes with no success. You stole a kiss. And my heart skipped a beat.
I suppose dancing is not necessarily an indicator of the rhythm of two in bed. Despite our unlikey matching, last night, I saw you for the first time as a future partner. You were smiling, singing and I felt just how much I adore you. How attracted I am to the wrinkles that surround your eyes. I would be willing to make you mine. Perhaps, our wedding could be without the newlyweds’ dance?
The night was far from perfect. Yet, that moment was. But, it, just a moment. As are we. Infrequent moments. Rotten milk more consistent.
And now I sit. In thoughts, recurring, more common. Frustrated. Wondering. Telling myself this isn’t worth it. It should end.
As succint as your parting bye this morning. I stared at the rearview mirror as I departed the back seat, searching for more. Your glasses hid your eyes. And you offered nothing else. I called moments later. You didn’t answer. I assume you are angry. No, I hope you are. Your indifference would hurt more. Anger received by indifference. The sum of which may be our end should you be an indifferent man unwilling of the effort. Am I this naïve? I, a masochist? Tell me I am wrong. Tell me I am worth at least this. I wait. With each ding and vibration of my phone, I jump. But it isn’t you.
It has been 24 hours now.
Like an addiction. I search for the willpower. To refrain. At this point, all I want, a conversation. Perhaps, gift me with our end.