9:17 p.m. | 2005-03-31
Exhaustion Makes Me Happy
I want to meet him at a protest or a rally or maybe even as a volunteer somewhere. I want him to be passionate and well spoken and to have his ducks in a row. I want him to be like me enough that I love him but different enough that I'm not annoyed. His jaw strong, his eyes bold, and his voice something along the lines of velvet.
I want him to be happy in who he is and want to change anything he isn't. I want him to trust me more than anyone else. I want him to understand that I'll know I'm wrong but will never admit to it.
I want him to wear scarfs sometimes and to laugh always and smirk; I love a good smirk. I want him to hate my family, but deal with them all the same and I want him to see what I went through without me having to say it.
I want him to read my mind and I want him to make fun of me when he can't. I want him to love my breasts but never tell me. I want him to tell me about his past loves and hold my hand when I tell him about mine. I want him to ignore me and let me know it and I want him to push my buttons.
I want him to be so imperfect.
My mother left the dinner table for some reason tonight and I felt the compulsion to not care for once. I acted like an adult and as I finished my meal I watched the table about 10 feet from me. There was one male at it, he had a book, and a glass of wine, and he was reading and picking over a steak. He was there when we got there and was there when we left and I found myself just loving how he didn't care that he was in this bustling restaurant all alone reading a book. He never noticed me intently staring at him, trying to read the title, or watching his facial expressions as he read.
I felt no twinge of excitement like I was interested in him but rather I liked him because he was fun to watch and obviously had his own agenda and personality.
My mother huffed back and we didn't speak for the rest of the meal.
My salad was good.
