Farce de Feminine
In life, she loved many. But if you asked her, he was the only one. And though this wasn’t the first time I had heard this canary of a woman sing this tune, I didn’t want to burst her bubble for fear of reality rushing in on my account. Even so, I wanted to believe her when she said the others had meant nothing. She was punch drunk with love, so much so that the residual fumes of her incapacitation induced a contagion that dared you, against the advisements of reason, to have faith in the premise of her puppy love proclamations (however shoddy). Alas, this contagion is no match for the sound sagacity one acquires after coming to terms with the loss of love and its subsequent effects on every relationship, regardless of the degree, from thereon. This was a process she had simply eschewed. The wound hadn’t healed as much as it had been padded and reinforced with countless buffers. It hadn’t festered long enough for her to understand that even pretty things have ugly baggage. Duality had been her foe. Her eyes screamed conviction; her words, naiveté.
I nearly couldn’t contain the bowel-quaking guffaw that threatened to expose my doubt in her assessment that the others had merely been “training wheels” preparing her for the “right one.” A half dealing in halves she was. How naturally she spoke of such clichés as if the “training wheels” had merely been a means to an end and as if she had been cognizant of it all along. No one is that sure, and that’s precisely the point. Oozing oaths won’t change this. Nor will exorbitant displays. It is a world where words can fall short and actions can overcompensate. And just because you say it, it doesn’t make it true.It was at this moment that I knew, all respect due, that I could never be this woman.
