It is Sunday.  It is sunny.  There are couples riding about.  Long hair being blown about with smiles and carrying flowers.  Well fitted pants and snappy shoes, and fabrics that can be seen through by backlit Sun.

Partners, as they are called:

We’ll hit the farmers market, for fresh coconuts and to buy small terrariums or other potted succulents. 

I’d like a latte and a chocolate almond croissant.

But your diet!

I know, but it is Sunday!  I ran yesterday.

Maybe just an almond croissant.

(Then the poking at the growing belly.  Laughter

and laughter through self-directed disdain.)

What do we have left to talk about?

What do you want to talk about?

A sale or something to plan for dinner.

The project I am working on.

No, not now, it is Sunday, we are spending this day together.

I want to be by myself, but I also want to be with you.

You are being an asshole.

I feel like an asshole.

The sun is feeling really hot.

I don’t want to eat anymore.

I want to draw or play the piano.

Sure, do what ever you want to do.

But I want to spend the day with you.

Are you checking that person out?

No.  I just like the colors they are wearing.

Are you going to think about them while we have sex tonight?

We aren’t going to have sex tonight, I want to cut out my libido.

I would have been a castrati if I had a choice growing up.  I like the voice.  I wonder how that would impact my drive to work?

Don’t you believe in love anymore?

I do, more than anything, but what we are all doing, this is not love.

That does not mean that I do not love you.

No it does not.  I believe you.  I love you too.  But I don’t want to ride bikes around doing nothing anymore.

And I am getting fat sitting around watching Buffy with you.

And I hate myself because I am not the person you need me to be.

And I hate myself because I want you to be something you are not.

Remember Arthur and Guinevere after they broke up?  She in the monastery, he in doldrums of depression.  She kept the sword and he drank from the grail that his best friend and home-wrecker’s disciple had met death for.  After that, when he dies in the setting sun with a spear through his breast from his inbred son, his own sword torn through his son’s body, this is love to me.  The sun and blood, and the friend with the wound that would not heal, and the squire who chases ghosts and windmills, and the boat that carries his body to sea but leaves his heart to the land.  To me this is love.

Boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, this is not for me.

My partner in life is the drop of dew on the wildflower, and the love that comes from dogs and friends as they bite or throw logs about and cuddle up when lonely or if brave enough to let me see their wounds.

Can I be that?

You have been so many times.

And you that?

We are right now.  Don’t let me eat anymore donuts today.