At Least They're Committed

“Um, you’ve alluded to being whisked — or is it whisted? — away three times now,” he says.

“Whisked.”

“Well, that’s what I thought, but that sounds like what you do to eggs,” he says.

“It is. Same premise,” I reply and I try to use hand gestures to awkwardly demonstrate the whole ‘whisking’ bit.  He had to correct me moments earlier about “smite” vs. “smote.” I always have to think that one through and when I’m talking out my ass about whatever pops into my mind — which I had been — I most likely get it wrong.

“Anyway,” he continues, unconvinced, “You seem to want someone to take you away.”

“Kidnap me!” I say, proudly. Has a little more punch, don’t you think?

“Um, yes,” he says. “But in the next breath you say you have to save yourself, so it’s not like you’re delusional.”

Right again.

“So what more can you do to fix things?”

It was so painful to hear what should have been so obvious last go round. Now it just makes me sad, but I’m heartened because I’m not fucked up! Go figure! Someone I love is and is unwittingly dragging me down . . . someone who might not have figured it out yet.

I didn’t want it to, but the whole ‘not my problem’ is beginning to sink in. “Build walls, not bridges . . . protect your heart,” he told me. Gasp! Suppose I’m starting to get it?

I smile, big and fake. “I have some ideas.”