At Least They're Committed

I’ve asked him to come see me and he’s been trying to, dropping by off and on for a couple of days while I’ve been surrounded by people. Now, at last, I’m alone.

It’s not that late but it’s already dark because of the time change. I don’t mind. I’ve lighted three candles and they’re glowing on the kitchen table. We’re sitting on chairs across from each other this time because I’m not supposed to be on the floor stretching.

He’s not shuffling the cards. They’re bigger and there are fewer of them; he’s putting them in order.

“I’ve got the Beatles’ Do You Want to Know a Secret? stuck in my head,” I break the silence.

He lays the first cards two down, their words facing me: Loves me and Loves me not.

I scoff and pull back in my chair.

“Just wait,” he says. “”What about it? The song, that is.”

I study him. “It occurs to me the lyrics seem self-centered and ridiculously vain.”

He chokes out a laugh and puts down three more cards, all in a row below the first two: Loves me for my shelter, Loves me for my work ethic, Loves me for my body.

The sixth card deviates: Something About Mary syndrome (SAMs).

Ah. I know where this is going.

“Vain? How so?” He holds up a card, but it’s more like a Tarot card than a regular card. The face on it is male, a black outline with colored features, easily discernible.  I ponder a moment then point like a child to the SAMs pile.

“Why is it a secret?” I ask. “Is he married? Is he ashamed of her?”

He stacks the card on top. “I think he was just being sweet.”

He holds up another face, and then another. I point to the same pile, those who think they love me but really only love the way I make them feel about themselves. The fourth card goes in the “shelter” pile and I feel my lips turn down. Then one more in the SAMs pile. The final card I stare at for several seconds before pointing to the “work ethic” column. The last ‘bucket’ remains empty: Loves me for my body.

“Let me whisper in your ear, say the words you long to hear,” I continue.

“What about it?”

“Foolish that any man should be so self-absorbed that he assumes a woman is going to wet herself just because he’s in love with her. Sad to think any woman would be so charmed.”

He chuckles and scratches his head, “They were the Beatles, after all.”

I nod. The shadows on his face make him look like the comedy mask, his crescent eyes empty  sockets.

He turns his attention back to the cards. “At least nobody only loves you for your body, right?”

I shrug. “If any really love me at all.”

He leans back, running his fingers through his blond curls, then picks up the subgroups, leaving only the ‘loves me’ and ‘loves me not’ cards. He hands the deck to me and I straighten it. Palms up, arms spread, he encourages me to go. Fanning them out, I study them for what seems like a gross amount of time. Finally I pull one card out and drop it atop the “loves me” category. The rest drop in no order onto the “loves me not.”

“Jaded,” he says.

“Duh!”