apeirophobe (apeirophobe) wrote,
apeirophobe
apeirophobe

Life in a Centrifuge: Part VII

Collision
weary interstitial


It stormed last night. Every searing fork emblazoned colorless, gliding flash-bulb squares on my field of vision, and the thunder...well, it's amazing how heavy silence can become just after a storm. It came and swept through so swiftly, but left almost reluctantly, the rain petering out in a peppery drawl.

It stormed last night, and the lightning and thunder struck with such intention that I wondered if Rachel had angered the Lord when she told me I took on the role of Jesus in her dreams early yesterday.

"You were the philosophical carpenter type. Not sure what it all means." Rachel and I had tried dating several months ago, only to find it burst into a remarkable emotional pyrotechnics show one night at a local bar. The whole ordeal involved gratuitous and creative profanity, a thrown pint glass, and, unbelievably, a dismembered beanie baby. We found, after the cooling off period, that we were able to laugh about the whole thing. Now we met for coffee once a week or so, and made out when we were both, as we had playfully labeled it, 'hored and borny.'

"Well what did I do? Wander through your dreamscape blessing people and fixing crooked door moldings?"

"I don't remember." She sipped her latte. "But if you're taking on the persona of Our Lord and Savior in my subconscious, therapy is almost assuredly in my immediate future."

"Maybe you're just still in love with me."

"Lust."

"Semantics. Most people can't tell the difference anyway."

"In either case, I'm afraid not."

"Ooh. Denial. Perhaps that therapy isn't a bad idea after all..."

"I'm comfortable with letting my deep-seated issues lay unconfronted and dormant, until a time when I am provoked into an irrational fury by something small like bad cell phone reception or misplaced lip gloss or-"

"-Or a mutilated stuffed elephant."

"That wasn't small. Peanut did nothing wrong."

We both looked out the window at the well-dressed scrums of people bustling here and there, weaving against and through each other in a symphonic metropolitan ballet.

"So if considering yourself God is delusions of grandeur," I started, "what do you call considering me God?"

Rachel assessed me briefly, looking me up and down.

"Slackrilege."
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic
  • 1 comment