The One I Left Behind

“You’re killing me.”

I wonder if it is murder. Rose is sure but I’m not.

The red hems of her nightgown make a clear outline of her body. Her hot ironed curls fall across her face deliberately, everything about the woman is deliberate. She did her hair that way to frame her eyes, which are lined in an almost ancient Egyptian fashion. This way you don’t notice the slight imperfection in her nose. Her portly slight asymmetries drive me wild.

“Just stay, you don’t have to be anywhere.”

Her bed is a king sized bed with light lavender drapery hanging over it. I’m laying in this bed with her and I can do nothing but notice how much I want to get up and move around. I’m all twitchy and I want to pace. She is a nice place to be and great person to be with but I can’t help it. I have the legs that God gave me and I just have to move. The more I wait, the more antsy I get. It’s now almost uncontrollable. I gotta go and she’s not to happy.

It’s six am and I’m back in my twin bed with no sheets. I have had less than five hours sleep but the cheap FM on my alarm clock is screeching. This tells me in two hours I must go to work. I can hear the coffee starting and I’m not really here until I have my coffee. It is another day without her and I wonder what exactly Rose is.

I love to think that she is real but I know I’m lying. She’s just a large warm bit of concentrated longing somewhere deep in my mind. I love her which makes it all a bit sadder. The more I love her, the less likely I’m to find a real woman. Once more with pitiful sentiment, I’m scared that she is actually dead. I pour myself a cup of coffee and try desperately not to linger on that thought.

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