Monday, 13 April 2015

A Game of Cat and Mouse

A late night text can be a lot of things. When lying in bed with a woman, none of those things are good.
My petite damsel, my blue-blooded aristocrat, she looks so peaceful while sleeping. You would never have guessed that just 20 minutes ago, I had her tied up in her favourite silk scarf. My good-to-be-bad queen wakes for only a moment from the sound of my phone, mumbles something and rolls over to lay her head on my chest.
I wait patiently until I know she is completely under, then slowly reach over and pick up my phone. I’ll share the words that she wrote, but the name of the author of this text stays with me.
“Where’s the passion Mr. Moore, that fucking tenacious fire that drove me wild?
I miss you and your bratty, frustrating ways, can’t believe you tossed me to the wolves, I love it though…you were just so…you.
We should get together soon.”
A guilty half-smile rises from lip to cheek as I let my mind wander back to not-so-distant memories of her.
She was creative and uniquely complex. Not classic pretty, but beautiful in her own way. She was unreliable when it came to showing up on time, hair always messy and off to the side. When she did show up, I could never tell if she meant to look the way she did, or if, under her time crunch, she just said ‘fuck it, I’m going like this’.
It baffles me when I think of everything that has to happen for two people to meet. If she never liked that post on Instagram, fuck, if I had chosen another picture altogether, would we have ever connected?
She loved my words like a drug; I could always tell when she needed a fix. First, she would send me a dirty little picture and a few flirty words. Then, when she knew that she had my full attention, she would request what she was really after: a bedtime story that you wouldn’t read to children.
I never had to answer questions, was never bombarded by her needing to know my whereabouts, or who I was off gallivanting with. In fact, if I’m honest, I think sometimes she rather liked the idea of knowing that I was up to no good.
We would stay up late – I’d write, and she’d watch me while pretending to read, always scantily clad and sipping red wine. In the morning we drank coffee and watched the news while popping a couple Adderall to chase our hangovers away.
Time spent together was amusing, but she wouldn’t drop her walls. Back and forth we went, playing a game of cat and mouse, but games can become boring, and standing still isn’t the way I live. Her refusal to budge was my green light for other opportunities. I was the stray dog she didn’t put on a leash, and when you don’t put a stray dog on its leash, they’re very likely to run.
You can spend a lot of time dipping toes into water, trying to figure out if the temperature is right, or you can just do a cannonball into the mother fucker and deal with the repercussions afterwards.
This isn’t a Carly Simon song, babe, but in case you were wondering, yes this one is about you.

To reply to your text: my tenacious fire still burns baby, it’s just burning with someone else.