Chocolate and Adrenochrome

It really ought to be sold in tiny glassine packets, priced exorbitantly and slipped from palm to sweaty palm.

It's that good.

Cranked heart rate, dilated pupils. Tension. God-awful wonderful tension. Gum-snapping, knuckle-cracking, unabating.

I'm like a tuning fork, or a speed freak... vibrating at an impossibly high frequency for an impossibly long time.

It's simultaneously exhausting and exhilarating. My batteries are being depleted as rapidly as they're being juiced; a slight fluctuation in current would be deadly. I'd be over and done with, spurting acid all over the whole works or slowly droning down into oblivion.

I've written about it extensively... attempting to word it into existence, straw into gold. Off the paper, it's so much richer and more multifaceted. Words are Diamonique on the Home Shopping Network. This is the real deal, a little chip of brilliance shining in the palm of your hand. You have no idea how it got there; it seems way too good, way too beautiful. Armed thugs from the DeBeers Corporation are bound to show up to repossess it at any moment. You can't clench it in your fist to hide it... that would involve taking your eyes off of it.

So you sit, you squirm, you swallow (and it's softer than sand and harder than sugar), you feel gratitude and terror trickling down your back in equal measure.

You hide a tiny part of yourself in a pale blue eye, radiant verging on radioactive, the brightest thing in a cozy dark room, and you pray.

Don't blink. Don't blink. Don't blink...

Better or Verse - "Late-Nite Trinity Marshmallow Roast"

I. night's gone syrupy could get sleepy could get antsy moon is jellified could be napalm could be candy shadows and bare skin on which mosquitoes are alighting something soft, scratched hard enough just invites deeper biting

II. all orbits shift a hip switch neuron twitch a collision perfectly perpetually missed with the coordinates of planets, or of dragonflies there's a certain natural fallingfast a built-in alphabetization words unspoken, the tune hums you (we laugh at memorization)

III. it manifests subtle, something like an unshoveable nudge (hurricane-causing flutter) unpoppable bubbles it buries itself inside the earth from which it is borne you could call it a propensity it carries a humid dampness, a dark richness, (sweet inevitable) a certain... density

The Infideli-Diaries - Pt. IV (B)... Over and Done With

Pt. I / Pt. II / Pt. III / Pt. IVa / Pt. IVb

Infidelity Lesson #8 : you've heard it from health teachers, public service ads and that one weird friend who always winds up nursing a Yoo-Hoo while the other partygoers embalm themselves with ethanol.

"You don't do things drunk that you wouldn't otherwise do sober... it removes inhibitions, not free will."

This may or may not be true. I certainly hope it isn't. The "facial lacerations due to impromptu pole-dancing" incident, for example. I'd feel a lot better if that could be credited solely to Captain Morgan's sadistic little parrot.

When applied to infidelity, however, it’s dead accurate.

You don’t do things with your crotch that you haven’t already done with your mind. The aching tension leading up to sex can be more pleasurable than the act itself. The somewhat-different tension leading to infidelity can - and is - infinitely more damaging than the act itself.

There are few blissfully happy philanderers. There are plenty who claim to be, but they’re delusional, psychopathic or a zesty combination of the two. There’s always… something. Nagging doubt. A tiny stone in the shoe. “What if?” The act itself may seem startling, like a pissed-off wasp in the living room. But guess what? Somebody had to leave that window open in the first place.

It’s not a disease, it’s a symptom. Illicit sex and lies aren’t capable of creating long-standing marital unease… but they’re damned good at laying it bare.

It’s not a stain, it’s a solvent… like alcohol, or turpentine. The things it leaves aren’t nearly as important as the things it strips away. Self-delusion, doubt, avoidance, complacency, capitulation… the thin film holding the whole rickety contraption together… gone, baby. Gone.

(Free will? That, you keep. Compliments of the house and/or a laissez-faire supreme being).

No matter which side of the triangle you're on... no matter who you love, who you're fighting for, who you grope... you're grasping at ghosts.

---

By the time the big revelation dropped, it seemed laughably small. "That... that was it?" marvelled my then-husband, "I thought you'd, like, killed somebody or something."

It was a tiny and hellish circle of awkwardness, that morning... something scribbled in the margins of Dante's notebook. Soon to be separated, we'd spent our respective weekends cheerfully vow-breaking. We hadn't expected this. I hadn't expected a crisis of conscience. He hadn't expected that I'd return home early, discover him and his girlfriend snoozing, tearfully demand her ejection from the marital abode.

Exhausted, minorly-unhinged, snot- and mascara-smeared... it wasn't one of my better moments. It's one of my favorites, however. It was the morning I finally knew that my husband and I were no longer together, in any sense of the word.

---

"... that was it?"

I was huddled under a blanket on our bed, intermittently crying and yawning. My soon-to-be-ex was sitting next to me, patting my hair, attempting to get to the bottom of my unpleasant little surprise visit. After an hour of false starts ("Swingers' convention? What?"), I finally 'fessed up.

"What do you mean, 'that was it'?" I squeaked, "I slept... with... a married guy! That's not a good thing! That's not me! At least I thought it wasn't!"

"Was this before, during or after the swingers?" he asked, half-yawning, half-sighing.

"Um... before. It was a busy weekend," I said, squeezing my eyes shut." In true type-A form, I'd kicked off the revelry early. The weekend's first conquest occurred far from the woods, on scratchy industrial carpet... with the infamous Mr. Married. My conscience apparently hadn't enjoyed things quite as much as my body. If I'd known that Married would be part of my life for months to come, my sunburnt little head might've just exploded.

My husband's head seemed detonation-ready itself... with exhaustion, frustration and... was that... boredom? "I guess I don't see what the big deal is... why you're reacting the way you are."

"I didn't think I was like that... like... y'know..."

He sighed, patted my head, muttered something vaguely reassuring. I nuzzled my sticky face into the pillowcase, felt sleep begin to slide across my shoulders... the most unambiguously welcome touch of the weekend.

Just as it all went blurry, it all became clear.

He wasn't particularly interested.

He was concerned... sort of. He was worried... a bit. He was bemused by the seemingly-unremarkable source of my hysterics.

But he wasn't interested... not in rug burns, sordid details or existential crises.

I'd raged against infidelity all along... but it wasn't the problem. I'd lost him long before he'd found someone else. He could spend hours with her and still crave more. He couldn't spent five minutes with me without growing bored. It wasn't me. It wasn't him. It was us. We could date, marry, even raise a child... but we couldn't summon up an iota of heat between us. And why do we cheat, if not to re-spark the fire in our own eyes, and to see something kindred in another's?

"Howyoudoing?" he asked, breaking our lull.

"Think I'm a little bit better," I muttered, curling into a ball and closing my eyes. It was an awful morning which ended like a fantastic night... tired and sticky, bruised and confused, slipping simultaneously into sleep and something which might just be understanding.

Infidelity Lesson # 9 : to thine own self be true. All others, take on a case-by-case basis.

If you must pick one virtue from the pantheon... choose kindness. Try to wheedle your way into two or three... but if it must be one, kindness.

Never say never. Never say never again. Never let your guard or your expectations down, unless you'd like a surprise confrontation with Nevers #1 and #2.

Even if you've cheated for the entire game, deal that last hand honestly. Forgiveness. Top-down. One for them... one for you.



Credits: special thanks to M., S., R., and M. ... couldn't have done it without you (insert double-entendres where appropriate). Enormous flaming kudos to my family (for not disowning me), for my friends (for being wise and patient in light of my sporadic idiocy/immaturity) and the internets (your comments are like Good Dog's sweet potato fries... sweet soul-sustenance with a side of garlic aioli). Extra-special shout-out to Bob Mould and Sugar, whose "Changes" has been on perma-loop throughout the entire Infideli-Diaries.