Love full of hate
Itís our fortnight ritual that has become as sickening as it is mesmeric. What normally starts off as a cosy afternoon in front of the television somehow finds a way to lead to one fight or the other. The slamming of doors before one of us leaves in a huff! And he takes his clothes, guitar and CDs while I change the security code to my house, calling him with the unprintable names all the while. I have since acquired loads of scented candles and incense that I was assured would help my aura get rid of the bastard. My jerk in shinning armour, I think to myself as foams of perfumed fizz balls threaten to drown me. I soak in the goodness of my aroma therapeutic bath salts as Ben Folds Five sings in the background: ďGive me my money back you bitch. I want my money back. And donít forget to give me back my black T-shirt...Ē
At his place Iím sure things are slightly different. Heís playing India Arieís lame: ďIf Jesus can forgive crucifixion surely we can survive and find resolution...Ē
But Iím not his project and he must see to finish with the T-shirt. And then it dawns on me that hell no, I actually want my Zola 7 T-shirt before he dies, which Iím hoping will happen in the next few hours. Clearly Iím more derailed than I care to admit. But he makes me wish death itself upon him.
How can something so precious turn into stinking simmering hatred at the drop of a hat? How does a product of non-stop cultivation stay on a ticking bomb mode at all times? We are forever trying to resuscitate this thing. And Iím sure the universe is cracking itself up with this game, for something always seems to happen so that we find ourselves back together again.
There needs to be a rehab for failed relationships. In this spirit I wait for his response or rejection of my call. When he answers, Iím going to tell him to drop the T-shirt off at a friendís place. Itís a long drive but Iíll be damned if he keeps something from me even though he poured me petrol for R350 last night.
I should have told him so many things. I should have told him: Neat freaks like you are nothing but cheap crooks who are desperate to clean behind themselves instead of cleaning their souls. He answers. Heís calm and he listens without prejudice. My heart melts when I hear him laugh at my lame joke. I proceed to the fact I want my old skipper which I left at his place as a way of marking my territory. He corrects me that its a T-shirt. Always the smart pants but like who cares about a stupid T-shirt when we have Friday night? I hang up and head straight for the candles. Candles are such a nuisance. They spill on every surface and itís never a normal stain. And what the hell is that nauseating smell from the bathroom?
On the phone he rounded off our conversation by saying we met for a good reason. ďFor you to learn patience and cordiality and for me to adopt the sense of the pace of life and to stand up for myself.Ē
A week later, we are at each otherís arms, something that is always kept floating above the real surface of it all. We operate on that thin layer when we know the bottom carries slime, holes and froth. In the background Macy Gray belts out: ďI may appear to be free but I'm just a prisoner of your love...Ē
Soon we are entangled in mind blowing passion. No issues discussed, no apologies and no promises, we give it another attempt. Then we write a song about the chagrin we call our relationship. I tell him he inspires me and he tells me I inspire him more. I blush and walk away to play our song. He thinks I sing like Mariah Carey, that maybe I should do gospel music. My nose flares up and I retire to my bed. What is it with men and shooting from their arses? But I love him and my friends wonít hear it.
In the morning, the sun rays pierce through the thin blinds of my bedroom, his body is warm and exhausted next to mine. Come to think of it, he aint that handsome but he makes life blissful again. So glad he didnít die the other night.