Georgetown

((work in progress))

You never see it coming. You're secretly a little embarrassed because you pride yourself on reading people, on knowing and understanding the human condition, the male condition. You chalk it up to being distracted with your family, with your career, with how insanely happy and self-sufficient you were before he came along. Your roommate tells you that you have your head in the clouds. Your brother tells you that you ought to know better. Your best friend keeps quiet. She knows better than to give you advise on your love life. He blows into your life like a heavy storm, pounding at your resolve like the rain does at old paint. He tells you thins that you know you shouldn't dignify by believing.

"I was hurt before."

"You are unlike anything I've ever known."

"You are beautiful."

"Elusive."

"Incredible."

You are an educated woman. You did the dating circuit in your younger years and you know better than to believe a man. Men lie. Men are only interested in one thing. Don't be a dumb bunny. Remember what the good Lord gave you knees for. Look, but don't touch or taste. If you know it's fire, don't let it burn you. Just say no. Stay in school. Don't be greedy.

You know.

You've always been the one to warn others about getting too caught up in a man... and yet...

"You are unlike anything I've known."

Your paint is chipping. You're shaving your legs every day now, just in case. When you get out of the shower, you put on Victoria's Secret lotion so that you smell like a high class underwear store. Yes, that's exactly what you want him to see you as... high class.

Feminine.

Bold.

You were a smart woman before he came along.

You were a free woman before he came along.

You were independent.

Strong.

In control.

And now... now you are melting. Before him you could have taken the wold on with one of your perfectly manicured hands behind your back, and now... now he is wrapped around every part of you, and you can barely stand upright.

You give in, It's winter which makes it easier to give in. It's always cold and at the first sight of Christmas decorations you run to him. You tell him all the things your roommate told you not to.

"I need you."

"You're all I think about."

"I love you..."

The last part you whisper a little, because that's the way women in the movies always do it, and because you are so exhausted with the strain of wanting him. He stands up and you want more than anything to just bury yourself in him. You aren't free. You aren't independent. You aren't strong. You aren't in control. You are...

You are...

Melting. Melted. You are the seven-year-old girl watching Snow White and dancing to "Some Day My Prince Will Come." You are dancing on your daddy's shoes. You are the 14-year-old girl who just got kissed for the first time. He's tangled in your hair. He's dripping from your skin. He's wrapped up in your legs, and around your arms. He coats your lips like dust on a shelf.

"Do you wanna get some dinner?" he asks. You nod, or maybe... maybe you are brave and you actually say the word 'yes'. You go to dinner. He tells you he is a dog person, and he wants to own a house some day. A house with a yard...

and a fence...

and a fireplace...

and a woman.

You go back to his apartment and do what it is a woman in love does. You eat more meals together. He says you have a beautiful body. He says you make love like an earthquake.

Your roommate says, "He's a bullshitter." That's only fair. You said her last boyfriend was a manipulative bastard, on a daily basis.

One day you ask if he wants to see a movie. He's busy and would rather you just came by later at night. A week later is your brother's birthday.

"I can't go, babe. Take one of your friends or something. Maybe next time?" You smile. He's planning for another year of togetherness. Perhaps he's planning for a house... with a yard...

and a fence...

and a fireplace...

and a woman.

He isn't, though. He's losing interest, or maybe he already has. You spend hours and hours in stores you would never think of spending money in but he absolutely loves, hoping he's there. You make yourself into the epitome of perfection and walk to his favorite cafe, sit down and slowly sipping espresso, waiting for him to show. You go to the bars, he took you to, overtly throwing yourself at men you'd rather not be seen with, praying he saunters into rescue you. Then you realize one sleepless night that he never said "I love you" back, and he stopped calling you...

"just to hear the sound of your voice."

But you resist. He must love you. It's just harder for men to say it is all. Your older brother says that he hates to tell you this, but you were just a conquest. He warned you. Everyone warned you.

This can't be. They just don't understand your love.

You confront him. You cry and scream and he tells you.

"Shh, it's gonna be ok. Calm down." And in a second of absolute clarity you know he believes that. You know he believes in a future with you in it... or someone else. Or any other woman...

Anyone with long hair and pale skin.

"Everything is going to be alright," he tells you. And, you know... for him it will be. You know he'll have that house,

that fence,

that fireplace,

and... that woman.

She'll be crazy about him. He'll be tangled up in her hair, and wrapped up in her legs.

He'll tell her he's a dog person.

She'll make love like an earthquake.

You're smarter than this, but... that doesn't matter. You should have seen this coming, but... you didn't.

You leave. You leave him, and days later you see his scarf draped on your kitchen chair. And you cry. Your roommate tells you to get over it. Your mother asks if you would like to move back home for a little while.

He comes by to reason with you. He kneels at your feet and hugs your calves. You smell the rum on his breath. You tell him to leave. He kisses you, and for a moment you are content with just being one of the many beautiful things he collects. he asks you to move in with him, and you know that he doesn't really love you. He's just trying to make it last a little bit longer...

until the next good thing comes along...

until some equally or exceedingly beautiful butterfly dances in front of his net.

"Goodbye." You whisper. He doesn't hear you. You say it again.

"Goodbye." And he turns,

and he leaves.

And you know it's over.

You wonder if he'll tell the woman from the house that she is...

"unlike anything I've ever known."