I don't need men anymore. I did, I
admit, spend years looking for my perfect mate.
The dark side who would let me see my bright side. And the other way
around, like a two-way mirror.
I wanted someone staring in my eyes, not in an unnerving way, but
showing me he listens,
he appreciates who I am. Someone to cook with, not chicken, but lobster
steak tartare, asparagus quiche. He holding the bowl and I the spoon,
in perfect synchronicity.
Someone who loves to hear me read Edna St. Vincent Millay by wine-laced
candlelight on Saturday nights.
Who will read me Wallace Stevens over coffee and oranges Sunday
Someone for whom I could buy silk underwear and paint my toenails
Even shave my legs--they have gotten so hairy!
A fire-builder, a door-holder, who doesn't condemn me for reading
as well as The New Yorker. Someone who will riffle the hairs at the
back of my
neck, nibble my ear lobe in elevators, who will hold me, because my
body is so
lonely, it has forgotten the human touch.
But now I understand these are
adolescent fantasies. I don't need a man wrapped
around me in bed, warming the sheets on freezing nights. And I am
content to eat, not chicken, but a single artichoke and an isolated
glass of wine.
I like to open doors, fires are clichéd, poetry does not need to
be shared, and
I adore cotton underpants that make me look like a female wrestler. So
I have no
pressed flowers in fading photo albums. What if I get no love letters
envelopes and the phone stays silent and black. Why have a color phone
there is no man in your life? What do I care? I shall never have a
or a vaginal infection. Men always disappoint you, and I choose to be
with no one but myself. There is such freedom in this decision. I am
adult, responsible for my own existence.
(She opens her arms wide.)
I embrace the status quo, and I
shall die, unremittingly alone, in an old, rotting house by the sea!
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