Symphonic

She moves like a symphony, everything in accord. Every aspect of her is in consonance. She’s the product of deliberate, skillful, practiced, logical decisions. I’ve not yet had the opportunity to see her dance, but the way she walks is like a dance. Close enough for me. I’ll take what I can get, and it seems like lots of looking is about all I can have. We’re friends, and we talk frequently. She’s calm, analytical and disarming. I’m conflicted, emotional, and angst-ridden.

Guard

She’s like a boxer playing lots of defense. She’s got no interest in throwing punches. She just doesn’t want to get hit. She doesn’t want to “get burned.” Like I could burn anybody? I’m about as flammable as a wet blanket. I’m the opposite of getting burned. And besides, what kind of way is that to live your life? If you’re not hanging your heart out there in its entirety, what good are you doing anybody? A heart is an incredibly delicate thing. It’s tempting to close it up tight in self-defense. When you hold back, though, you compromise the quality of the person you present to the world. In eliminating the potential for injury, you also eliminate the potential for joyous embrace. I don’t always succeed in living up to my own ideals, but I do my best. I’d rather eat a jab, and land a devastating uppercut, than dance around the point.

All Out There

I put it all out there. I spilled everything like a wash basin full of used laundry water. It flowed in a torrent around her ankles and covered her feet. Nothing was held back. I was as exposed, guilty, and as vulnerable as I can be. Complete, hopeless honesty is one of my traits, for better or worse. Instinctively, I recoiled, waiting for her reaction. I really had no idea what it would be. Disgust? Anger? Repulsion? Pity? I knew that I could take any hit that she could deliver. It wouldn’t kill me, but it would likely hurt. That’s the best reason to fear women: because they can hurt you in ways that you can’t imagine. They really do hold all of the cards. Regardless of what was coming, I felt relieved for having said what I needed to say. It was out of me now, though perhaps inconsiderately, as I had just burdened her with it. Now she had to say something. She played it well, like a friend. I still wasn’t getting what I wanted, but the door wasn’t closed. The potential still existed, and in all things, you haven’t lost until you quit trying.

Stepping Away

I stepped away from it deliberately, and it stung. I’ve got a big, stupid, sticky heart that gets attached stupidly and too easily. It’s a personality flaw. Nobody’s fault but mine. All it takes is for a woman to show me some kind of sincere kindness, to treat me like I’m not a leper, and I become pathetically infatuated. At least I’m aware of it, and do a reasonable job of keeping it under control. After all, I am married, and I do love my wife immensely. We swing, but it’s not exactly an open arrangement. It doesn’t allow for rampant, unrestrained infidelity. We only swing under very controlled circumstances, with each other’s approval of the other’s new partner. My wife would never approve of me hooking up with a co-worker. There’s too much constant exposure and too much danger for emotional attachment. Nothing has even happened, and I already have an emotional attachment. Besides, it’s a hell of a leap to expect a woman to make, to believe that my wife and I have this sort of arrangement, and that it would be okay. I’ve miscalculated that jump before. I just learned that the Blond is actually single. So I helped connect her with one of my friends. They’re both great people, and should make a great couple. She was probably going to pursue him regardless, and I don’t think that she was ever attracted to me. So it doesn’t matter how I feel about it. I have no right to her. She’s always been very kind to me though, and she’s absolutely beautiful. So it stings. She asked for my opinion of him first. I really appreciate that. I like knowing when somebody holds my opinion in high esteem. I gave him an honest endorsement, and I went to happy hour with them both after work. I was an awkward, nervous wingman. They were talking when I left. Off like a band-aid. I’m sure they’ll be great together.

The Blond

The Blond is gorgeous. She just started working here about two months ago. She’s a tall girl, long and lean. No fat on her. Not that that’s terribly important to me, but she’s very fit. Looks like she’s about my age. Very tall, almost my height, but not quite. I love that. The length of her form is absolutely serpentine, like she’s always leaning back slightly, coiled. Reclining even while standing, she carries herself in an almost predatory pose. It’s like she’s ready to strike, but at the same time very aloof and relaxed. Whenever there is a problem, she’s always above it. She does not engage conflict. Loads of composure. At the same time, she takes no shit. Every aspect of her exudes a confident, light, buoyant tension. Her hair is absolutely straight and bobbed just slightly below her ears. She looks like a natural blond, and her lips are light pink and naturally fall into a pucker, like a sideways hourglass. Her ass must be as tight as a drum. She must come from better breeding stock than I do. She’s a perfect physical specimen. Of everybody in the office, she was the only one who showed up to the opening reception for my last painting exhibition. That meant a lot to me. I really appreciate that. Her boyfriend was there too. He seemed like a pretty cool guy.