The Art of Flux Thinking

Loosens the harsh buttons on his tight collar, preparing himself for the night’s woeful whim. His hope lies on the ‘yes’ that’s audacity’s bother, arming himself with his ego’s loving soft limb. Left hand occupies the card of currency’s fatigue, the right clenches firm the distant communicator. His mind rushes through phrases that might intrigue, his heart screams as the masqueraded devastator.

The bus he awaits, his salient car indoors remains, to the common man, for her sake, he pertains. He wishes to not buy her with his awful possessions, the deal must be sealed with his amiably trite expressions. Romance for him is a game he plays through exchange, I give you this, you give me that; nothing left strange. A double transaction he makes, of crotch and money, like a bear, with the bee he negotiates for her honey.

She is an exemplar of the luxuriant female; legs, hips and hair a delirious asset to hold. Standing there amongst others, before her all look stale, a Jubilant gait; a maenad of Bacchus’ own mould. Truly an emblem of prestige, worthy of possession, to make this sale he needs wholesome indifference. She strikes his imagination, he loses retraction, the deal ready to be lost, with serene ignorance.

The pretty bee conceals the sting in her blonde hair, she waits for him to make his honey intentions bare. To the diner, he proclaims, where we’ll nourish and feast, his eyes undress her figure: north, south, west and east. She notices, but ignores his frivolous dimensions, in hope that his pockets will shelter his defections. Given up in the tale she has, with a droplet of tear. The feeling it brought is subdued by a persistent fear.

Be gone! To the tale she yells in sobbing ecstasy, security, safety, unity and peace of mind she chose. Nothing in the moment, only the gloomy fantasy, her fruitful love has decayed, saluting the morose. Under the veil of illusion that is her heart, she bitterly abstains herself from all and none. An emotional dreg she chooses to be, a gloom art. Insistent hopes for wonder; in them she finds no fun.

The dinner is pleasant; the table is tenderly candlelit, he speaks of himself; she listens to the dreary pit. He asks not much, but expects an abundant lot, to get what he has given and more is his plot. What’s in it for me, is his primary concern, her awareness thickens through his expectation’s burn. She knows the business deal and has more to lose than gain, to reconcile the costs, from his advances she’ll refrain.

With frustration his eyes blaze with quid pro quo, his mind: I gave her dinner, where is the return? The ‘yes’ he anticipated, shrivels into a ‘no’. Her mind: another boy with a plethora to learn. The date is over; his wallet conquered her attention, her blonde hair dazzled him into a stiff madness. Her past seduces her into a future repetition, there is no one better she thinks; to her fear’s gladness.

The second date’s frailty promises only despair, the end of the night; his lewd eyes infect the air. She wants it too, but his attempt at indifference appals, to his ignorant dismay she naturally stops and stalls. He huffs and puffs with the contract deal in mind, I bought you this; you give me that; he’s completely blind. Her own sightless naive self, blames him accordingly, to the messy contract they abide ironically.

Three dates later and they are in standard relation, three years later, and she tosses the bloody bouquet. Thirteen years later, two kids and mortgage automation, she wishes she never threw the fairytale away. His plumbing beyond function in her presence, her heart shrivelled into a raisin, her passion drained. The secretary’s bosom he prefers a younger essence. Her pillow in his absence, with tears is stained.

She’s had enough: to a tryst or to death is her plea, she values herself too much, from her life she won’t flee. She searches for another, with which to humbly negotiate, her honey has no value; the maenad can’t agitate. Her exuberant stride no longer seduces in its wake, a scornful abyss, where once hid love for love’s sake. The selfish intentions shine through her lascivious style, her bee charm repels the men who once sought her guile.

She’s nothing, nobody even to herself adequately dead, her tears futilely cleanse the emptiness that is her soul. Betrayed herself the moment she surrendered to her head, she craves salvation, for a little repose she would give it all. He is saved from such pain, but lost to himself forever; his pride, the pillar that holds him is blocking his sight. His liaisons offer a release from sturdy emotional weather, each woman kills a bit of his spirit, leading him further away from might.

The spoils of modern Romance, this two are but a depiction, the world we’ve built leaves debris absent from benediction. Tears and our lives we pay for a little security in currency, in hope for repose we find nothing but deceptive parity. A business it has become, with a life of its own agreement; ‘what’s in it for me’, the motto of its petty arrangement. Turns beauty into ugliness with a single manifesting look, for us to get to where we are a simple ‘yes or no’ it took.