no matter the context,
I worry that my legs are unshaven.
It’s the middle of February and I’m wearing long pajama pants
when you ask me to come over.
I tell you I’ll be there when I’m done putting away laundry
but really I shave my legs over the side of the bathtub
and hope that the cold air outside doesn’t make them prickly.
What a shitty feminist I am.
You answer the door shirtless, with grey sweatpants clinging to your hips
like I’m sure I will be later
and I make childish comments about you being naked
like I’m sure you will be later
and I remember that the underwear I’m wearing have a hole in the lace
and suddenly I feel like I’m failing
and falling as you shut the door behind us.
You apologize for the mess and I wait for your hands
but instead you ask me to read something you’ve written
and a wave of some new feeling rushes over me.
We read and we talk about Hemingway, Ukraine,
politics and people and Beatles lyrics.
You crack open a beer but don’t shove one down my throat
or anything else for that matter
and tell me that your grandfather is from Chihuahua, Mexico,
and suddenly I’m laughing.
I can’t contain my fits of laughter and my words turn to a singsong mess
and you put your hand on my waist just to ask me if I’m okay
but I’m more than okay. I’m exceptional.
And I deserve a night of words and pacing and questions
and deciding if Antarctica is an iceberg or a land mass
and hugging goodbye at 1am because it’s really getting late
and we’re sleepy.
I slipped on a sheet of black ice walking home
and landed not-so-gracefully on my ass in a puddle
and I suddenly can’t stop laughing again
because my legs are prickly
and this isn’t the kind of wet I’d expected to be.
|?||"He Thinks Antarctica Is An Iceberg & I Love That." by Yours, Darcy (via writingistheremedy)|