I wrote the following piece after offering the list prompt 5 Kinds of Love (for an explanation of that prompt, click on that highlighted title).
One result of this exercise is a list describing love as an annoying person. It turns out my love has always been late; what I wrote is in direct response to that realization.
Before my written piece, I’ve embedded a brand new Madonna video. Although this may seem strange, once you read my post, you may see the significance. You may want to read my post first, then watch the video. And love her or hate her, the video might function as a writing prompt too.
Love is late, he thinks, chewing with his mouth open, standing at the cutting board. The drafty old apartment, the stinking compost, the spider webs at the window’s edge.
Love is late, a high maintenance drama queen who refuses to tremble, even when he calls him out as a fake, a false promise. But is it Love’s fault they’ve still not settled down together, or was he too busy eating prosciutto pie and a decadent chocolate dessert to even notice Love was knocking at the back door, or scrubbing dishes at Cafe Flore, or walking four dogs on two leashes down Castro Street?
The truth is, Love scares him. He’s never lived with Love before, except once, and it was mostly disastrous, though sometimes sweet. Sometimes Love made dinner, or unloaded the dishwasher, or planned a date. But mostly, Love left a ring of mildew in the toilet, or insulted him in public, or came in three minutes. Back then, Love was mostly a disappointment, a premature unpleasant surprise.
But now it seems, Love is late. The nighttime wrinkle creams and poisonous sunblocks are already packed in the toiletry case, his spine is compressing, and that mid-life crisis is in full swing.
Love is so late, the puppy they were supposed to raise together—the cold, wet, black nose, the tiny paws on his shin begging for more—that puppy has already grown old and had to be put to sleep because of hip dysplasia.
He can’t wait any longer. He’s tired of these years of gardening and long, hot baths, night after night of TV shows, or reading in bed. So he goes out, tries not to judge the aging pop music divas who still wear skimpy clothes and make black and white videos with dancers half their age, who date too young men and wear too much makeup. He decides to align himself with them instead. To step out onto the dance floor, press himself up against the sweaty shirtless bodies, and simply dance.
He even allows himself to be somebody’s fantasy: Little Daddy, Boy Toy, or the plaything for a bored couple, their abdomens showing the dimples and folds of age. At least he feels alive, he thinks, at least Love, if it ever does arrive, will find him dancing to the High Hat, the 808 drums, vocalizing with Kylie or Madonna. Alive in the ways he never was sitting at home with a ham sandwich, and reruns of Glee episodes, and that stupid Smart phone that never rings.