This Is Not a Love Song

The strange familiarity.
Out of all human feelings, my ever favorite is familiarity.
Familiarity, more than love, more than passion, more than fulfilment.
I guess you learn along the way that constancy wins every race. The instant spurts of emotions, the temporary fire, the agonising excitement, they all fade away. The rabbit tires out quickly and the tortoise scores the gold medal. So it is.

I told Samuel today that humans are enslaved by their urge to move forward. He blinked–he always does on addressing ridiculous statements, and made a joke about idle hands and devils and whatnot. He could have argued that I secretly don’t stand by my own finding, that “enslaved” has far too many bad connotations to associate with what we’d both eventually agree is a human norm. But I suppose he spared me the trouble out of kindness.

I scrubbed my bare feet against his rug. It had an uncomfortable peculiar color but I envisioned it would probably feel warm to make love on.
“Turquoise is girly.” I mumbled.
“Don’t offend your own tribe.”
“Feminism is also girly. And I don’t have a tribe.”
He blinked, “I find your fetishization of lone wolves very amusing. I’ll paint your toenails. Tell me more.”
He grabbed my feet.
“I think the epitome of equality is never having to talk about it. We shouldn’t need to say that the tall and the short are equal; they are, but we needn’t say it. Uttering it nullifies it.”
He colored one nail crimson, “You always choose to ignore the inputs. In a world of your design, one with no witch hunt, rape, or women in burqas, the need to publicly state that men and women are equal would be nonexistent. Do we live in this fantasy realm? We don’t.”
“Awful color. And you’re wrong. We constitute our world. If we consistently need to establish that my lack of penis shouldn’t have anything to do with my constitutional rights then we’re implicitly asserting that it’s natural for it to do. Then equality would be a favor. I’m a woman and you’ve granted me equality because I worked hard enough to earn it, not because we are equal by default.”
He drew a rose on my ankle. it tickled a little. He whispered, “Your inner misogynist self finds soothing colors girly.”
“‘Girly’ is an adjective. It’s language. Only the butthurt political correctness enthusiasts would be offended by language.”
I could read the dismissal on his calm face and it was rather satisfying. My angry rants never disturb his rivers. It was our cornerstone.
“I messed up your foot.” He declared proudly and I smiled.

“Do you think you could ever go for guys? Like if you were in prison and were really horny?”
“And you’d take it up the ass?”
He laughed. I smirked. Prepared a speech on typical masculine pride.
“I just think it would be too painful to enjoy. I know what is going in your little brain. Cocky is derived from cock and we’re a joke to you.”
I thought that him thinking so was endearing. Security works in mysterious ways, one of which being embarrassing confessions.
“Would you fuck me on your turquoise rug?” I asked casually. The red rose on my ankle already distorted.
“No. I’d rather eat. I’m taking your active libido for granted.”
“Did you just reject me because you can’t stop thinking of black prison dicks inside your ass?”
“Yes. Also pasta.”

White sauce. And garlic. And a side of familiarity.