Bon Bons Melting
I moved into a studio with a tiny fridge. The freezer is only big enough to hold a small tray of cubes, package of gourmet sausages and an occasional box of chocolate covered cappuccino bon bons.
I often eat ice cream while watching movies to make me feel that I am well taken care of. My freezer doesn’t get that cold and when I eat bon bons, I race the drips of liquid cream and sugar goo to my lips, draining the bellies onto my tongue. The melt gets on my chin. I think that if I had a boyfriend he might find this terribly endearing, but probably just gross, and I’d be sadly disappointed.
The other night I had my college boyfriend’s sister over for dinner. It had been 14 years since we had last seen each other face to face. We talked of my boyfriend, her brother who died, when he was only 22 and how a loss of this magnitude stunts, as it simultaneously intensifies experience. We talked of the horrors on online dating and how our generation is screwed by confused gender roles; the search and destroy, or lay down and play dead tactics of the email order bridegroom. We raced bon bons to our lips and laughed at the crunch of chocolate and ice cream squirts.
When I was a train-wreck men loved me. They reveled in spoon-feeding a rescue mission, simulating acts of love. Now it seems no one but the hopelessly oblivious will pursue a girl who moves through her discomfort and doesn’t drink. Awareness of another’s ambiguity manifests to me as roadblocks, leaving a sense of isolation from input that is all too pervasive.
I believe at times it can be lonely taking care of yourself.
However, I find comfort in the hopefulness of time and how serendipity leads to letting ones guard down long enough to have dinner with a long lost friend. I make room now for things to happen, because I want the movement, like ice cream seeping from a broken chocolate shell.
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