Ko-Fi

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Sharts of the Heart



Every try to say something romantic and have it come out so garbled it sounds like the creepy mumblings of an axe murderer pleading with the voices in his head?

That pretty much happens to me every time I want to be flirty.  I'm just no good at it.  You would think, as a writer, I would have these amazing pick-up lines at my disposal.  You would think I have these incredible phrases so powerful a woman's panties would disappear.

You would be wrong.

No, often what I say either sounds like it comes from Buffalo Bill while as he sharpens his blades or so pathetically emo it would make Percy Shelly seem masculine.

  

Even when I compliment a woman, it always seems like I'm asking her to rub lotion on her skin.

Normally I accept this as a simple fact of being me.  I'm going to fumble and bumble and really not look very good in the end.  It's okay, that's life.

But there's this woman....

How often have you read that one, dear reader?  Hmm?  How often have I said there's this woman in my life?

None.  Because I've never met one who merited this much attention.  Until now, that is.

There's this woman...

And no, I'm not ripping my hair out and carving her name into my arm with a razor blade while composing poetry that compares her to religious figures.  I'm sure she would love the gesture, though. And truthfully, what woman wouldn't?  Supposedly one of the greatest gifts of love in history was the head of John the Baptist.  I wonder if she'll ask me for somebody's head?  Would she, too, want it on a silver platter?    (Please excuse the plot bunny running across the page.  He'll be dealt with soon enough.)

But she's prominent in my thoughts and I often find things in my day I wish to experience with her.  I hear music and wonder if she'll like it, too.  I find myself wishing she and I were at some of the live shows I'd seen in the past, her standing in front of me, leaning into my chest, my arms wrapped around her front, swaying together.  Papa would totally approve of this.

But before any of that can happen, I'll need to be able to communicate without sounding like I'm nervous about what I have hidden in the back of my van.  Or worse, use language that leads her to believe I'm parked outside of her house, but down the block a ways, with a pair of binoculars.

I'm not good at lighthearted flirting.  For some reason, the switches in my brain are stuck on two settings.  Cold and uncaring, or Thermonuclear Suicidal Love.

You know what Thermonuclear Suicidal Love (TSL) is, right?  It's when she's afraid you're so in love with her that skinning yourself with a rusty tuna can while standing naked in her front yard at 3AM is a reasonable show of affection.  And let me tell you, it would be totally romantic, too, because I'd be reciting Hither, Hither, Love by Keats while I did it.  Very classy.

But no, TSL is only right for a few, select situations.  And right now, we're just not there.

Yet, anyways.

No, right now, I just enjoy hearing what she has to say.  I enjoy hearing her opinions on art, or seeing pictures of her works, since she's highly talented and creative herself.  I often find myself cooking and wondering if she'd like what I just baked, or if she'd enjoy the television show I'm watching.

She's important to me and I don't want to scare this one off.  I try not to sound needy.  You know, like a Victorian-period street urchin covered in coal dust with his wood cap in his hands saying, "Please, ma'am?  Could ya find it in yer 'eart for a few moments wiff this sorry lad?"

And what if she did give me some of her time?  What then?  I'd have to be on my best behavior and not say much.  No comments about selling body parts or conjuring demons.  No beginning sentences with, "The first time I disemboweled a guy..."  

You know, it might be best to just pretend I'm somebody else.  What would somebody normal do around a woman?  The next time I venture out, I should bring a notepad and make notes about what a normal guy does around women.  You know, gather intel, and then practice in front of my mirror while doing my little kookie dance.

Maybe I'm over-thinking this.  I do that sometimes.  It's just that I know how nuts I am and I really don't want to screw this one up.  I like her a lot.  She's important.  And I know me--I'm a great kamikaze pilot.  I've always been too much and not enough and right now I'm neither to a person I really like and it freaks me out.

So there's this woman...

And I'm promising myself to keep the neuroses under wraps and just chill.  I'm listening to the music I cranked up in high school and smiling a lot more.  I'm sending short stories out and editing a novella to submit by the end of this month.  I'm told I've got another story getting published by either the end of January or early February.  And this week I started a new job.

Life is good for me right now.  It was good before I met her and after it just got better.  I want her to be at the victory party with me.  I want to experience this with her at my side because anything this good loses meaning if not shared.  Things will progress as Fate allows.  But until then, I'll keep things under wraps and let her go on believing I'm moderately sane, and the quirky things I say are just the poorly-worded romantic overtures of a socially awkward guy and not the voices in my head fighting for a turn at the mic.    

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