Fine, or not

  "I'll be fine," He says, and walks out the door.
(as I write this, I am notified—a message from Him, but not really, only a repeat, no emoji in sight)

   I think of the torn shower curtain from this morning—not just torn, but shredded, the Great Cat having ripped it apart after the long pole failed.

  I think of His tread of late, heavy and swaying like a wounded, angry, defensive beast—it is no wonder You say the ladder is coming away.

  I think of Him and me and us—

Hospital Cure: part one

  
  I  had a very profound experience in the hospital—an experience with another man. The situation I believed impossible occurring at the most unlikely time. Granted, had it not been for the meds, I would never have been so bold, so open—sitting in that hospital bed, once more attached to tubes and wires and poles I felt I was in my own surreal adventure, exotic Persian prince included. 

  It was my eyes he first saw, the rest of me was burrowed down in to a pile of six blankets (one is never enough in the hospital; if you're lucky they bring you a heated blanket; putting the heated blanket next to your cold limbs and feet can be close to divine). His initial remarks about my blue eyes sort of slid right by me. All I could fathom was that it was shift change, and here was the newest stranger that would be poking, measuring, asking, checking me every two hours. A male nurse, what a rare treat; some of these men are incredibly compassionate—Mike, in the ER, for example; years ago, a man named Brian—some are just efficient. But this one, was attracted to me, and I'm still trying to figure what it was. Hair pinned up, no makeup, dehydrated and nauseated—amidst all that he saw something he liked. His hands lingered on mine when passing medication, or beverages, or the red jello he brought me because he knew I was tired of green. 

  He offered to give me a shoulder massage—I can never resist a massage from a pair of strong hands. "You're so hot." "Well," innocently, not understanding, "I have been under six blankets all day." "Oh is that what you thought I meant?" Embarrassingly, yes, I thought he meant that my body was literally hot. That was the first moment when it occurred to me that this man was attracted to me, not just attracted, but that he wanted me, however briefly. He was standing behind me as I sat sideways on the bed, so close I barely had to lean back to be against his abdomen. He leaned over and whispered into my ear "You smell fantastic." Again, shock reeled me. Granted, I had taken a shower just before going in to the hospital, but I would have thought all the saline and plastic and latex would have overwhelmed any scent I might carry. Thank the goddess I had refused to wear that awful hospital gown, instead I was wearing a black spaghetti strap tank with a shelf-bra and a pair of purple jammie shorts, allowing at least a modicum of comfort and, I suppose, a more pleasing view. I began to make the small noises I do when pain and tension are being rubbed away. "Oh my god, do you always make those sounds? I can't believe this is happening. I've got you all day tomorrow, too."

  I said I was certain he showed this attention to all his pitiful patients. He told me to walk through the halls and look in the rooms and find someone else that looked like me. "What about all those cute little nurses and nurse techs?" "No way, not those snobs." Now, I was convinced that I was not the first patient he had ever thought was cute, nor would I be the last that received extra attention; but, at this time, in this moment, I needed, wanted, to experience seeing lust in a man's eyes. He leaned against the wall with his computer kiosk, clicking all the appropriate boxes,entering all the data that was required, all the while looking up at me and smiling, maybe even somewhat sheepishly. The ring on his finger hadn't gone unnoticed. I just kept my gaze on him, so that every time he looked up our eyes met. "I think you are trouble." "Me? I'm the one bound to this bed right now. How can I cause any trouble?"

  In between the administration of medicine and Sprite Zero, weaving around the looks and fingertips, we asked innocent questions. "Where do you live/" "Flowery Branch." "That's a nice area." "I like it."
"Where do you work?" At the College a few towns over. "I graduated from there!" small coincidences that add up to a fated meeting. Of course, there are things I think I said, responses I think he made, but the memory is now dulled by time and a different kind of insobriety. I confessed to him that I thought my face fucked up everything for me—I think he said "Your face doesn't fuck up anything." But I can't remember exactly, or for certain. 

  He asked if I was married. "Not yet, but in October I will be (hopefully). What about you? I see a ring on your finger." Married for seven months. Then what is he doing with me? What am I letting myself do, or letting him do? He offers another massage. "Let me know if I go too far." "It would be hard to go too far in this room; you never know who will pop in wanting to extract or insert more fluids into and out of me." His hands moved down to my biceps and squeezed, then they slipped into my shirt, and squeezed my breasts. "I think that might be too far..." I started to protest, but it came out a wordless breath. I brought my hands over his and removed them from my breasts. "We can't," I whispered, "we'll get caught." Caught by whom was the question. I certainly didn't want another staff member to walk in; but even more so there was You, beneath all of the flirting, I wondered about You and what You would say or do if You were to walk in while I was being fondled by another man, trying to understand the duality of my feelings—for the first time since being with You I was in the presence of another man I wanted fuck. 

  He grabbed my face in one hand and kissed me, once, twice. "I've got to go; but I'll be back later. can I bring you anything?" He looked down at his crotch and shook his head, "How can I go back to work like this?" The erection underneath his dark blue pants was unmistakable and flattering. As he wheeled his kiosk out of the doorway he said "Behave yourself in here," and winked at me. "Of course I'll behave, I'm all alone in here."

Perfection Ruins

  We fought and loved and battled in waves, and finally, the unrelenting struggle grew tired and began to flag, to flag for truce and truth. You said things I wanted to hear, and things that I didn't. I lashed and howled and tried to fight the both of us at once, and urged the both of us on to terrible acts, committed. I rent myself and You so deeply, the tears began to seep out of the floor...and now, now we both have a hand in destroying the home. We both have fault in destroying ourselves.

  Time slips away from me.

  I got into the car, and a man, a pastor Rick Something was speaking about how perfection ruins our lives. I'll be damned if he wasn't speaking to me. He said that a perfectionist doesn't always come in the form of someone who is "perfect," but too often it is the most imperfect person, one who uses perfection as a standard for themselves, measuring constantly their imperfectness against either their imagined ideal self, or against what their imagined form of perfection is. This gives the poor perfectionist a perpetual armory of pikes and powders and projectiles with which to pummel and punish themselves for not reaching perfection. In this way, the perfectionist is a slave, always believing that it is the measure and account of performance that pleases their Master. Every day the slave must wake and worry about the sheer number of  tasks perfectly performed, deeds needed to obtain and retain favour of the Master. Thus, the slave can never be certain of his station, and the list of failures and insufficiencies—sometimes real, sometimes unsubstantiated— and the feelings of dysmorphia replenish the armory of perfect pain.

  Of course, the perfectionist—believing that there is such a thing as "the" perfect—also holds others to this imagined standard. In doing so, they are allowing themselves to pronounce judgments and values as though they were foundational to the situation, as though they were righteous; but, that doesn't mean right. The perfectionist becomes disappointed —unwilling to become dis-illusioned—when the object of their perfection proves to be ineffective in fulfilling the fantasy, and then the pitiful begins to criticize and pick apart the imperfect performance of the partner, casting the same blame and guilt upon the other as they do upon themselves. The perfectionist drives both themselves and others into frustration, annoyance, anger, and it is and perpetual cycle as long as Perfect is a goal, a desire, an idea.

  In this way, a perfectionist can end up driving away the very one they respect the most. In this way, the perfectionist can distance themselves from the masses. In this way, the perfectionist can lose the very means of improvement. In this way, the perfectionist ruins lives.