Lately, I just don't know.
It's a beautiful feeling to be of use to a woman again and when I tell her, " Woman, please… Just let me do many things, " it makes her laugh. It's good to hear and her smile is amazing, too.
Why do broken people see a way out through me? It seems so. I know, because I am one.
I asked Kim Billie from the church about it, because I was feeling unsure, and he said, " You prayed for someone who understands you, right? You sat there and told me the woman you'd share your time with and accept into your small world would have to be an angel. Ever considered that maybe you're the righteous one? "
Of course not!
I don't understand why this is happening to us.
This woman is capable of doing so much and she's classy and dangerous. I feel disappointed we didn't cross paths sooner.
I haven't had a woman in my life in far too long and I remember twenty years ago the mother of my daughter did the same things. She moved in, wriggled around on the lounge, unashamed of her body, wrapped in cotton thin fabric, sweating profusely, damaged, fearful and anxious and putting on a dark veil to protect herself.
I wrote stories and songs back then, but never did anything with them.
She's similar here, right now, this one, resting herself, and I don't want to wonder what she's doing for the next twenty years. What if we don't make it that far? Next week seems far away, too.
I pick up my guitar and she hums along with me like Baez did with Dylan, but she likes me more than Bob Dylan, she had me believe. When I reach for my guitar in need of safety, she points with her eyes at the frets, and says, " Well, don't hesitate. Tell me. "
I have so many good things to tell her about herself, but she's not ready for that. All that emotional stuff doesn't sit well with people like her and I. Emotions aren't our thing, but I know it's all false. We need to be loved like we need a sixty second cure for an ailment which only needs water.
A psychic once told me a story about my plus one when I was sixteen. I had to write a question down and I did and the psychic said, " She likes your bike. You're older when you meet her. She's younger than you and you're busy. You do something with yourself and you're known for it. You can do a lot of things. You meet her, but it's too early. Bad timing. You're not happy people. Something happens to her and there's a male figure in her life and he's not good to her. She reaches out to you and she's waiting for you somewhere and you come along and you take her. You two don't like being apart for too long. You can be very protective of each other. She must be happy. You're an unlikely couple, but you both surprise people. She's your best friend and she doesn't like you knowing you're the love of her life. She never gets over you and there's something about a child, also. She may want one, but it's her decision, and stay happy, or you’ll lose her forever. You become someone she never expected you to be. It's her story now. "
It went a bit like that. Life is subject to change.
And here I am laying on the floor beside her, working from the ground up, although it's not the kind of work to build tables and chairs. It's a puzzling thing to have a woman so close yet so distant.
She likes back and foot massages. I'm not good at it, but if she asks again, I've got a nice enough surprise. I learned how to do it, just this morning, while I was out doing many things.
I returned from doing man stuff, and she was trying to get comfortable, and she said, " You didn't take long. Did you run? "
I was thinking, No... But I shouldn't leave you alone for long. I know you can look after yourself, but at the moment, it's not the right kind of care. You dress beautifully, your nails are fantastic, there's nothing wrong with us. It's only fair wear and tear and your eyes speak to me unlike any before. I can't even tell their colour, but I'm colour-blind anyway. It's in all the ways you look away when you talk to me. I wish I could have you and have you understand how much goodness you have in you and everything else is simple jail stuff we need to get through, get over, and get real. I'll build the pedestal fan for you. I'll cook for you. I'll go for a walk and get the Lindt chocolate. It's the assorted pack. I know. And by the way, I've done crash courses in back massage since this morning. I'm good to you. Damn skippy.
But there she is now, a muse who moved in with me.
She's on my sofa, cooling down in front of her fan, her black cotton skirt flipping, twisting each time a pocket of breeze washes over her. Her eyes are closed and she whimpers delicately when she moves in her sleep, like a lover she truly wants is kissing her in all the right places.
See what she does to me?
That's when I reach for my guitar. I want to write songs about her, but it never helped me in the past, especially in my mind. I'm supposed to be writing a book, but when she's around me, I reach for that stupid guitar.
I'm glad she called and I'm glad she asked if I was serious. I'm glad I sighed, hungover, " I didn't ask you to marry me, did I? "
She scoffed, " Don't make me vomit! Where are you? I'm waiting for you with all my stuff. "
I walked up the hill, she was there, and I took her home.
Bio:
L Christopher Hennessy is an author from Coffs Harbour, NSW, Australia. His poetry has featured in various anthologies globally, he has published a number of short stories, and enjoys writing novels.