So I got spurned. I had it coming. It was like one of those passive-aggressive relationships. I was passive. She was aggressive. I liked it.
She told me I was her backbone. So I became a better man: because, here it is – she needed me. Without me she would have faltered, fallen, withered, and the hounds probably would have had her. I couldn’t let that happen. No, sir, I might be a Punjabi, but I know how to treat women right.
So you think I am shallow? Am I too naïve for you? You would probably say: “Serves you right for falling for a cliché like that”. You’re probably right, Bubba, but how was I to know. She was a beacon shining over some very choppy waters : and I was a big hulking supertanker perilously at sea. How ludicrous is that? But you know, when you are growing old, you treasure whatever little amount of love coming your way, like gold dust. Listening to her constant chattering was like waking up on a summer morning and hearing a bird chirping away at your window sill. What bird? How the fuck would I know? You want what? Fucking draw you a picture? Yeah! Fuck I will. Fuck you!!!
Nothing much happened beyond the perfunctory shaking of hands the first time we met. We shook hands, sizing up each other the way strangers do: she skinny as rails, smartly dressed; me hulking supertanker, needing a fresh coat of paint. Fine, fits with my opposites attract theory. You see, when I was a kid, an uncle visiting us during the Summer Holidays, pointing to a plug and socket, explained it thus: this is male this is female – which is probably the best piece of advice I ever got from anybody during my adolescent years. So what I am saying is this: what if she was so swan like compared to hulking bear like me? I mean look around.
I know what Henry Miller must have felt when he spoke about his love for Anais Nin: “Don’t expect me to be sane anymore”; “I came away with pieces of you sticking to me”; “Don’t let’s be sensible”; “I read the papers about murders and suicide and understand it all thoroughly”; “Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc?” Henry Miller: I feel for you man. I am in a murderous mood myself…
I was like the Moor in the Shakespeare play, raging against the night, like a wolf gone rabid, with murder most foul in the heart. But try as I would the only thing I could remember was the first handshake and her hands : cold and bony and clammy. I suppose I have a fetish for hands like some people have a fetish for toenails.