Great Exhortations

I sit here now, a patient, impatiently waiting for the impending news, the who's, the what's, the when's and the why's, and my eyes, my eyes, they wander warily down to my feet, to their defeat, as each toe attempts a wiggle on it's own, alone, my ten little piggys trapped under the tether of a leather, weathered and worn, like my soul.

You see I've been in this seat before, starring down at this floor, at these shoes, canvassing for clues that could creep me closer to completing the repeating mystery, my history, that historical, rhetorical, metaphorical obsession with love.

And that's about the time I hear my name. So I gather up my belongings, replace the curled, unread magazine to the top of the heap and follow down the longest of hallways, this weaving woman in white, a revision of the vision of some guardian angel I've seen many times before.

In my dreams, perhaps. No, on the side of a bus, in an advertisement hocking low cal cream cheese to the masses with fat asses. That's right, I know your precious secret. Your hypocritical oath, indeed. I too can't believe it's not -- but before I can utter, mutter or stutter she butters me up a sweet, smooth smile, and I step into her chamber, despite the clearly present danger, and assume my role as her daughter for the slaughter.

The doctor will be in shortly, she seethes. Take a seat.

Great, more waiting.

I eye my options, a plastic step-stool shoved into the corner, paying penance for being so damn uncomfortable no doubt, or the parchment bathed butchers block bellowing out before me. Clearly this is the end I was intended to meet. And so, like a flesh covered flank of fillet mignon I flay myself out to the sound of what used to be a flawlessly smooth surface, now wrinkled, crinkled and ruined under my shifting weight.

And here I wait. Wait to be seen, wait to be heard. Wait for a fate whose arrival will burn every last hope with every new desire for a freshly filled future barring, of course, brimstone and fire. Liar. She said he'd be here shortly.

Short. That's me. As I eye the scale, then my pale, frail reflection in the mirror. Who is this guy? And when did he stop being the man I wish to pretend to want to try to be? Me? Yeah, I'm still here. Still queer. But you don't have to get used to it. Shit, I never did.

Knock knock, like he needs to ask.

I find his hardened face particularly telling. Compelling, this sudden swelling in my chest, at best, the sweat beaded forehead, the desert in my throat. Was this really all she ever wrote? Was this my last call, my life's line of credit, indebted, overdrawn with a ravenous red reaper out for collection?

Did you use protection?

Like he needs to ask.

Like I can remember.

What's up, Doc? Is that ba-dee-ba-dee-ba-dee all folks? Or do I get a second shot, a lyrical last dance, another chance to romance and recall the memories, fuckin' vodka reeking memories, in the corners of my eyes, these lies, these lives, their wives.

Oh yes, the way we were.

Allergies, he says. Tis' the season.

Nothing more could be less. And nothing less is ever more depleting. Then excreting my appreciations for both his time and expertise, I tease, can I still turn my head and cough?

Ease off, it's just an expression. Some half-assed imitation, a celebration of temptation, yet his half-hard hesitation gives pause to trepidation and in that moment of speculation, when anticipation weds reservation, I smile in desperation and let it slip, this, my greatest exhortation.

I'll see you in six months then...

...when we'll dance another day, and die just a little bit in between.