| < -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------> |
| < -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------> |
| Poemission |
 |
 |
| Yes, women are pussycats, just as men are dogs. I believe that. In my art school days I fell deeply for mi vaquita mona, my little cow monkey, as I called her. It seemed to me we were soulmates, but after only two weeks of romance and two nights of lovemaking, she decided WE SHOULD ONLY BE FRIENDS, citing that all her boyfriends end up being her enemies, and she wanted to keep me in her life always. I didn’t want to lose her, either so I hid my yearning deep within me and became her best friend, her confidant, her co-conspirator, her constant platonic escort. I kept my muted pain to myself, sharing it with none of our mutual friends. One fine spring day, a circle of us were sharing a picnic table in the warm sunshine, when someone observed that the day was April Fools Day. My vaquita mona quickly piped up, “Oh really?.....Hey Danny, wanna get married?” A hush fell about the table, all eyes pointing downward at suddenly tasteless burgers and fries. It seemed they all did know of my quiet love for her, had seen how my eyes read every word her lips formed, how I’d go out of my way to refuse her nothing, how I was alive when she was beside me and drunk when she had no time for me. All I could manage at that awkward moment was a reply of ‘no thanks,’ then everyone had somewhere else to go. Some cats will let you cuddle and stroke them only to sink their teeth into you for no reason, if not merely to remind you that they have the fangs to do so. And me, like a good dog, I remained loyal to her, heeling, guarding, accompanying, up until she did get married and had no further use for me. |
| Cut to the Quick |
| < -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------> |