The Jerk's Tale
1.
She taught me how to kiss. I was fourteen with skinny legs and a palpitating heart, and my mouth tasted pungent for days.
The length of her skirts seemed to correspond with her passion. After she left, I wasn't surprised to learn she walked around naked. Or at least that's what the tabloids suggested. I quickly realised she was no Venus and proceeded to disavow her immediately, like a guilty apostle.
Still, I hoped she would eventually sleep with the Prime Minister. I'd always wanted to say I'd dated someone famous.
2.
She danced up to me at a party, knowing her hair was immaculate. She told me it was midnight, as if it made our encounter special. I hadn't touched human skin for months and my neck welcomed her warn breath, even if it reeked of vodka shots.
I woke up to a volley of missed calls and text messages. She claimed I was an enigma, and invited herself over to my apartment. I faced an ethical dilemma for days, on whether I should succumb to my libido. She mistook my silence for disinterest, and quietly slunk away.
I didn't mind. By then, I'd cultivated an interest in philosophy.
3.
She was the friend of a friend. I admired her breasts and gentle voice, and fell in love when I heard her call someone 'darling' on the phone. We were in the midst of a crowded shopping centre, but I felt as if an unholy light had descended upon her.
She also lived thousands of miles away. After a while, I no longer found it difficult to say goodbye. I discovered, on Valentine's Day, that her father owned five cars, she wore designer perfume, and that everyone secretly called us Lady and the Tramp.
“This is never going to work out,” I said to myself. In the end I just stopped writing.
4.
She was young, shrewd, and my first illicit affair. Her body was young and pert, and her nose perpetually lost in a book. I had an affinity for intellectual women and decided to engage her in conversation. Not before long, we were engaged in lingering embraces.
I told her I had a girlfriend, that I was sad and lonely, and belonged to her on alternate nights. I wrote a monologue designed to inform her I was a lying, cheating son-of-a-bitch, but in an attractive way. She listened carefully and saved my speech for future reference.
Years later, she told me she had a boyfriend. I felt a pang of irrational jealousy, and reminded myself he was uglier than me. Or so I assumed.
5.
She was blonde and blue-eyed, but less attractive than that description might suggest. I'd just moved to a new city, and decided that sex was a good way to occupy my spare time.
At first, she appeared to be a worthwhile investment. Aside from stripping ritualistically, we saw films and concerts together, holding hands like we were supposed to. Unfortunately, our interactions grew increasingly contrived, and in a fit of nonchalance, I said, "I only love you because you have curly hair and play the piano."
She broke up with me a week later. I went home and pondered what else to do on Wednesday night.
6.
She loves cats and watches football. She wears no make-up, but her lashes have their own shadow. I cannot keep my hands off her. Weekends are for television and grocery shopping, and I sleep on her shoulder in crowded trains. My right arm gets crushed between us, when we huddle together in bed.
She is the only girl in present tense.
Some days, inexplicably, my mind wanders away from bliss. I think about my past lovers, the objective, typewritten list I keep in my shirt pocket - torn, crumpled, still intact. In this desolate world, they never move on. They are complaining about me, debating my habits, mocking my nose. And I pray she never joins them.
1.
She taught me how to kiss. I was fourteen with skinny legs and a palpitating heart, and my mouth tasted pungent for days.
The length of her skirts seemed to correspond with her passion. After she left, I wasn't surprised to learn she walked around naked. Or at least that's what the tabloids suggested. I quickly realised she was no Venus and proceeded to disavow her immediately, like a guilty apostle.
Still, I hoped she would eventually sleep with the Prime Minister. I'd always wanted to say I'd dated someone famous.
2.
She danced up to me at a party, knowing her hair was immaculate. She told me it was midnight, as if it made our encounter special. I hadn't touched human skin for months and my neck welcomed her warn breath, even if it reeked of vodka shots.
I woke up to a volley of missed calls and text messages. She claimed I was an enigma, and invited herself over to my apartment. I faced an ethical dilemma for days, on whether I should succumb to my libido. She mistook my silence for disinterest, and quietly slunk away.
I didn't mind. By then, I'd cultivated an interest in philosophy.
3.
She was the friend of a friend. I admired her breasts and gentle voice, and fell in love when I heard her call someone 'darling' on the phone. We were in the midst of a crowded shopping centre, but I felt as if an unholy light had descended upon her.
She also lived thousands of miles away. After a while, I no longer found it difficult to say goodbye. I discovered, on Valentine's Day, that her father owned five cars, she wore designer perfume, and that everyone secretly called us Lady and the Tramp.
“This is never going to work out,” I said to myself. In the end I just stopped writing.
4.
She was young, shrewd, and my first illicit affair. Her body was young and pert, and her nose perpetually lost in a book. I had an affinity for intellectual women and decided to engage her in conversation. Not before long, we were engaged in lingering embraces.
I told her I had a girlfriend, that I was sad and lonely, and belonged to her on alternate nights. I wrote a monologue designed to inform her I was a lying, cheating son-of-a-bitch, but in an attractive way. She listened carefully and saved my speech for future reference.
Years later, she told me she had a boyfriend. I felt a pang of irrational jealousy, and reminded myself he was uglier than me. Or so I assumed.
5.
She was blonde and blue-eyed, but less attractive than that description might suggest. I'd just moved to a new city, and decided that sex was a good way to occupy my spare time.
At first, she appeared to be a worthwhile investment. Aside from stripping ritualistically, we saw films and concerts together, holding hands like we were supposed to. Unfortunately, our interactions grew increasingly contrived, and in a fit of nonchalance, I said, "I only love you because you have curly hair and play the piano."
She broke up with me a week later. I went home and pondered what else to do on Wednesday night.
6.
She loves cats and watches football. She wears no make-up, but her lashes have their own shadow. I cannot keep my hands off her. Weekends are for television and grocery shopping, and I sleep on her shoulder in crowded trains. My right arm gets crushed between us, when we huddle together in bed.
She is the only girl in present tense.
Some days, inexplicably, my mind wanders away from bliss. I think about my past lovers, the objective, typewritten list I keep in my shirt pocket - torn, crumpled, still intact. In this desolate world, they never move on. They are complaining about me, debating my habits, mocking my nose. And I pray she never joins them.
