Balls of Yarn

Not much to say about this little piece. I started writing it a while ago, forgot about it, left it on the shelf, stumbled across it the other day and finished it up. Anyway, it's just a little something to keep me (and you) occupied. I've got a legit short story I'll be posting either today or tomorrow. So, in the words of Les Grossman, "Go fuck yoursellllves."

Balls of Yarn

She says, “I’m like a kitten… and you’re my favorite ball of yarn.”

And I’m not sure whether to be flattered or incensed.

She says, “You’re my fuck-the-world plan.”

And I can only guess what that means.

I say, “You can tell how much someone loves you by how much you disappoint them.”

She asks if she’s disappointed me, so I tell her, “Of course.” I use “in the past, anyway” as an addendum. I don’t want her getting the wrong idea.

I think about asking her the same question, but I already know the answer. Disappointment is as tangible as an out of focus photograph with her—it’s dark and forbidding, but somehow nostalgic.

She says, “He claims he’s never been disappointed by me.” So I tell her he’s either full of shit or doesn’t love her.

We both agree it’s the former.

She feigns distress, like this is a pivotal moment, like she needs to know she’s the cause of someone’s disillusionment.

Someone besides me.

I offer some half-assed consolation, assuring her he’s almost certainly had moments of frustration and disenchantment so strong, he’s thought about leaving her.

She thanks me for my support and concedes he was probably just trying too hard to read her.

At this point I know I’m just something to keep her entertained, something to keep her crazy—synthesized psychosis in primitive skin.

And I don’t want her to think she’s still a lightning bolt jumping from synapse to synapse in my well-worn brain, trapped in a memory like it’s a conductor. But I want to talk myself into believing she really happened—that beaches weren’t just made for summer, and summers weren’t just made for tourists.

Still, these days she’s nothing more than a shadow of oblivion on a well-lit boardwalk.

We should probably be telling each other to shut the fuck up, like we’ve done so many times.

We should probably be ignoring each other, like we do for months on end.

But tomorrow we’ll be contemplating whether or not to speak to each other. It’ll undoubtedly depend on how lonely we are. Or how much work we have to do. Or what our dreams were. Or what destination was visited on the Travel Channel last night.

In the end we’ll let circumstance push us one way or the other, allowing the universe to dictate our relationship... like a kitten playing with two balls of yarn.