one thing i've never told you about our fantasy life is that, very early on-- before i'd worked out the whole skull ring thing-- i used to imagine you'd meet me with a ring. you'd give me the ring, sometimes followed by the emergence of a secret surprise wedding that you had planned. the ring was always something you designed. the details of the dress and the wedding very simple and very matter of fact, but beautiful, tasteful, made poetic by the beauty of the gesture. no big brew-ha-ha. no other people even. just a vegas chapel or captain of a ship. i never focused too much on the details of these things. because, of course, it wasn't the fetishization of the details of the event or the item that interested me, those i sketched in broad strokes; what interested me was that you had planned it-- what you would think that i would want. of course, it's still me painting the broad strokes, and i don't like tacky or ugly. my whole life people have bought me gifts for various things at various times, and i'm grateful or not (to be honest, in varying degrees) but generally not truly satisfied. my likes are so odd. my tastes so specific. i almost never can really use the thing. but, they took the time, spent the money, i feel tied to it. and, in the end, i feel like they really shouldn't have bothered. i wished they hadn't. this is a pain of mine that i have largely managed to solve. i manage to convey the wish for cookies they baked rather than something they bought. or, ya know, whatever, it's not important
the thing is that it doesn't mean i don't like gifts. i love gifts. i just love them to be spontaneous and spot on, ya know. that just pretty much doesn't happen. like hardly ever.
so, this surprise wedding, it's perfect.
it just so happens that the way that this just oh so casually happening wedding can just go off without a hitch to become this effortless poetry, implicit in that fantasy is the groundwork of you knowing me well enough to pull that off.
but no, maybe that's not even right.
it's supposed to be like the first time you and i collided in that doorway.
the total effortlessness of that moment.
our wedding would be like that, the symbolic embodiment of that.
not the towel moment. that's what our life symbolises.
that feeling that the atmosphere changes, like molecularly, and there's a slipstream or something. i still have that. i still don't know what you smell like. i know i've hugged you when you must have smell. when you wear a shirt for four days straight it has to have a smell, even if you do not, and the smell it would have would be your smell. it would give me so much comfort to have your smell to think about.
i'd have gone mad from the want of you if i had that.
i don't.
