14 Lovers: 4 : Lillian Chimes 1939 – 1943

You tell yourself that you’re not going to fall in love again, so you start doing everything you can to avoid the arrow. You get busy. You’ve got no time for dates, none at all, you’re always rushing to the next thing. I’m sorry, you say, to the attractive people who are stupid and brave enough to approach you, I’m just far too busy –  can’t you see my hands are full, maybe next time. But there isn’t a next time, is there? No, not for you.

So you spend time with people you aren’t attracted to at all – maybe they have little moon eyes, or big laughing mouths and you think – no, not my type. Not my type is safe. Easy. You can relax around Lillian because, well, there couldn’t ever be a thing between you, could there? You can stop running for a minute because around her, you know you aren’t going to fall in love. You tell her repeatedly – not my type, eternal bachelor, never going to happen. She hears you, she’s got her own life too, after all, and you aren’t her type either. You’re too tall, she says, and too lean, and too pale, and too dramatic. Not my type.

Then she dates someone short and soft and tan and calm as a summers day.You hate him, you despise his fat lip and sheepish grin. You want to tear his big easygoing face off. You want to bleed out his short little body and slap the tan off his face. Maybe one night he compliments your suit and you lose it, just lose it. You punch him in his soft gut and it feels so good, so good that you want to do it again and again but then she is there and she’s furious at you, angry in a way she’s never been before because there was no reason to be, not with you because you don’t care. You’re not supposed to care. You’re not involved. It doesn’t matter.

You know she won’t speak to you again. Not until you come crawling to her door and you ask her to leave her suitor, to see you, to love you, to let you love her like you didn’t know you could. You’re not my type. She says, as she kisses your pale face. You touch her, with your then virgin arms, your hands, innocent to her shape. You’re not my type at all, you say, kissing the lids of her moon eyes. Not my type, you whisper, lips on her wide mouth. Not my type at all.

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