Listen, I have real relationships, I argued with myself. The sort that allows you to fight with your best friends loudly enough to startle the neighbours; intense enough to cry and laugh at the same time in front of them. And do you know, after all that, we do not end in hate?
I argued that it’s the sort of relationships that other people know is deep. Strangers may think we are mismatched lovers or family. We ooze love when we are all together.
That is how much they love me and I them. We are honest with each other. With me it is about what you see is what you get.
“That is just madness, darling”, I heard my own voice speaking in that droll, contemptuous fashion. The voice I hate. The voice I use when people speak in fake accents or say ‘anywayz’ or use multiple exclamation marks. The voice that smokes a cigarette from a cigarette holder and has red lips. “In the real world that is not normal. Honesty has no place in relationships. Remember Adam’s Curse? We labour, that’s all. Who wants to see your tears or your laughter? Who really cares when they ask ‘how are you?’ God forbid, you really told them. In the end, it’s all hollow. It’s not love they are offering you. It’s pity. Or you are feeding each other’s needs at the time. And him? He won’t leave you even when he wants to because he pities you. That is not love. Hate would be better than condescension, than indifference. You know that.”
And the voice stubbed out that imaginary cigarette.
We sat grown quiet at the name of love.
In the trembling redness of my lips, we made a bad joke.
We are bi, you know that, right?
Bipolar. Yes. Or something like that.
We laughed. Me and I.
It was tinged with despair that twin laughter of ours.
Weary-hearted, we concluded it would be best if we cried.
And so we did.
Disclaimer: This is PMS/drug induced, hallucinatory, on-the-verge-of-drifting- off-to-sleep writing.