I’m on Second & Second smoking a cigarette and looking at him and it’s Him, that’s me stepping into his arms for a kiss right now and I can feel the scruff of his gruff brush against my bare cheek and something tingles like chimes in the night and I’m breathing out and I’m breathing him in.
And there’s nothing I can do except stand there and let go and I float back to reality and he’s smiling at me and his hand is extended and in it is a book, a black paperback and he says to me, “You have to read this,” and it is in my hand, and this black paperback now has my fingerprints. And I look at the title and it says:
Nothing. It’s all black.
And then I turn it to read the spine, and it says: Mr. Brown. And there’s no publisher. And the cover is a strange paperstock. It doesn’t have the flexible finish of the mass market numbers so it’s lost its shape. Gotten a bit flabby. Or maybe the Invisible Man reads so hard. But all I know is this boy gave me a book. My heart is about to break out of my chest cause it’s bounding around like one of those bouncy balls.
I want it all.
That “want” thing does not work for me. It doesn’t stop me from wanting, and in the end, mm dear me. I seen it coming, from Day One. I could tell you this night with the Invisible Man was…
…but I won’t. I’m doing that discretion thing. Now thing is, you’d think I would see how this will go, but noo, not me. I refuse to interact with reality. Seriously, if I agreed with reality, I’d still be answering phones all stohhhned while working out new hair shades for Saturday night’s party. Because that’s where this started. Parties. What else can I do? Make books, I guess, cruise for men because, ohh yes. I’ve decided the Invisible Man is my man.
Only he’s not.
My thing is, I love the chase. I hate feeling pursued. I love men who elude me. I loathe men who get caught up. I want a man who is hard to get. I reject a guy who is easy like me. Only one of us can love more than the other, and that lover will always be me.
Sad sap. Romantic. Melodramatic. Sarah Bernhardt. Star of stage, not screen, though undoubtedly I look lovely on film and video, except my voice, well, that’s why I speak like this. It never fails to entrance, the soothing sounds of self importance. The sweet smell of success swells and crests and explodes into a vaporous mist off the tongue, and I’d write prose and love letters and poems simply because… I need a muse, a man to turn me on and not give it up, make me work for it, prove my love.
Ahh. I have a thousand names for it but it is a perfume. Obsession. It is my heavenly doom. Can’t help myself. I build castles made of clouds, no chance for anything except a momentary reverie. Like a rainbow or a butterfly in the gardens below my bed but you see what it does, it has me writing nonsense like this.
It’s just me and my tears, and it doesn’t make sense, no, really, why am I crying? Why does it bother me this bad? I don’t know but I know it’s not about the Invisible Man; it’s about the Invisible Men. A legion of them. I’d say fill in the blanks but I am not sure where we would begin.