Sunday, October 26, 2008

Avocado and Sunshine

Up until that moment, I had been enjoying my omelette, the company, the day. There's something about avocado, no matter how bland it actually tastes, that is supremely satisfying to me.

Across the table, he had made another verbal gaffe. There had been a couple of others in recent weeks, but it was this third that made me freeze. Experiencing my own unique blend of instant anxiety and resentment, I fought the urge to shut down, and ignored the voice that told me that the only way I would know was to ask him.

I thought about how it felt to hug him from the passenger seat while he was driving, how comforting it was to wrap my arms around his male frame, and how my head always found his shoulder, as if it were home.

Scale. That's what it was all about, scale. Whenever we stand face to face and kiss or embrace, I've always felt so tiny. That feeling is incredible; I instantly attain a level of femininity I don't possess when he isn't near.

Something had to be ignored and, because something had to be ignored, I told myself I'd ask him to explain the verbal gaffe later. Later, he could tell me why he thought it was me he had related that story to. Later, he could tell me who, if not me, he's been having conversations with. For now, I would ignore it.

In favor of savoring the taste of avocado on my tongue.

In favor of playfully touching my feet against his under the table.

In favor of walking out of the restaurant and stretching my legs out in the passenger seat, the sun pouring in while we drive through the mountains.

In favor of feeling tiny in his shadow.

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