:: My Reality ::

:: Wednesday, April 28, 2004 ::

Without You


Waking up, foggy and stiff
A feeling like I have the flu
I focus on the mirror
And start another day without you


Late for work, Traffic is hell
I park the car
Ride the elevator to my cell
Turn on my computer
The usual fits and starts
Another day without you so far.


Lunch time should be fun time
Food and folks and such
My plate is soon empty like the jokes
I hurry back to my office
I don’t know why the rush
No phone calls no messages for us


The afternoon stretches on I eek out some work
My boss says “nicely done” He doesn’t know about the hurt
I lock the door, turn off the lights with the afternoon closing in
A day without you ends.
A night without you starts
all over again.

:: Tom 9:09 AM [+] ::
...

You know, the song below is partly from a book entitled V., by Thomas Pynchon, and partly from a real Beth, one of the most stylish and sexy women I have ever known. We were in love for about a year. I weighed a trimmer 200 lbs, she was a petite 5'2" (in heels). Just absolutely jaw dropping with a personality to match.

Beth owned no clothing of color, nor anything white. Her walk-in closet was a complete unbroken row of black. Black blouses, black slacks, several 'little black dresses.' Same with lingerie, all black. Her room was painted a Ralph Lauren designer color, Charcoal. Black silk sheets and black comforter. Black venitian blinds kept the room in perpetual darkness.

I was invited into her room on Thursdays, and didn't leave till Sunday. Monday through Wednesday I was not allowed to speak to her, and she actually wished not to be seen by me. But on Thursday afternoon, coming from work, I'd find her in a black tee and black panties sitting on a bar stool at the counter in her kitchen. "Come here, Darling." she would say in a gravely voice. Then she would hook her leg around the back of my knee, the way described in the song below, and latch on to my tie and literally pull me to her and kiss me. Thus would start our weekend.

Every so often we would go dancing. We would get very dressed up, I would actually wear a tux. She of course a black Claiborne knit dress, size 4. Sometimes a sleeveless mini, sometimes a DKNY to the floor, but always black. Her skin tone was pale, she never, ever allowed the sun to touch her skin. Her face as clear, creamy and white as a Dove commercial. She'd get all made up, we would leave the condo at about 10:00. sometimes we would go to a very upscale resturant, all the waiters knew her. We would be seated, order something like wine and toasted Foscia Bread. That's all. We would eat, talk, smile, and leave a $20 tip.

Mostly she danced like Madonna in 'Vogue' posing this way then that. That was her scene when we were out. Men would approach her to dance, give her some lame line, she would say something like, "Oh, do you have a lot of money?" I was her body guard on these excursions I would stand or sit close by, occaisionally comming over to ask if everything was ok. I would drink coffee. And I would drive home. We always left together at the end of the night, and once home, would climb the stairs to her room and fall asleep in each other arms.

We were in love for about a year, I lived with her for two. The 2nd year was not as fun as the 1st. She tired of me, was less tender and romantic about our love making and the Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday routine became unbearable. I made the decision to move out and I did. She was tearful and for a time bitter, but she too had already moved on.

I saw her one Christmas, a couple of years later, it was awkward. She apologized for not being 'dressed' I apologized for gaining weight. That was 12 years ago. I haven't seen her since.

:: Tom 9:08 AM [+] ::
...