My ideal woman is flashing through
identities. Almost every day she's changing, supplementing character traits
adapted from real, flesh and blood women. Needless to say she doesn't
appreciate it.
Whenever
I revisit her she tends to walk off. She can feel the initial signs of my
altering her, she has said as much, and turns away which I suppose just neatens
the transformation. One minute she has short blonde hair covered by a woolly
hat and the next she's brunette with glasses and puffy cheeks. She has a
personality, a resounding one through all the adjustments, though it doesn't
seem to want to acknowledge my existence. I'm kind of into bossy women right
now so I'm okay with this.
I
think the weight bothers her most. Being a man, I do make it fluctuate. I'm
generally realistic when it comes to body shape but I do have moments of
weakness where only a buxom figure will do. I sometimes wonder if an invisible corset
just suddenly pulls tight around her waist. Of course I don't ask her such
questions especially when I just want a woman who doesn't always have answers
for everything.
I
see the way she looks at her reflection sometimes, admiring the pigmentation of
her skin. She's so used to white that tan is refreshing and black is better. I
see how she is constantly restyling her hair from time to time, she seems to
always rise to the challenge.
Sometimes
she talks to me but never about us, always about what books and films are
currently out and whether or not I can brush up on my philosophy and politics a
bit more. I'm trying, I am honestly trying. As soon as I find anything new out,
it goes straight to her. It's only fair and, besides, I get the distinct feeling
she's properly digested it before even I have.
I
once asked her if she was technically my anima, we're talking Jungian
archetypes here of course, and she told me to move focus away from pop
psychology for a while. Sorry, I meant she encouraged me. I'm just not used to
so many words coming out of her mouth all at once.
Okay,
I'll admit it: sometimes I don't really feel like talking to her either. I'd
sooner skip to the sex but the entire experience would suddenly feel ethereal
and I don't really fancy thrusting at intangibility. I try to be tactful,
romantic even but she's just not having it either way. I suppose she knows all
of my signature moves by now. Do I have signature moves? I'm seducing a figment
here.
Right
now she's a six-foot tall red head in a leather jacket so I'm watching what I say.
I'm trying to bring out a patient nature in her but, every time that I do, she
starts to resemble my mother. She's resisting me. At what point does an epitome
become a prisoner? Was it ever really a lover in between?
I'm
slowly coming to the realisation that I should probably let her out somehow.
But then she'd come out as me, with my face and that's another personality that
I can't handle. Or maybe she'll just seep out of my ear as a bit of blood or
brain matter. I could always cull her. No. No, I haven't even broached the
subject with her yet.
Are
you comfortable, Constance? I say. I call her Constance because it seems like a
good sturdy temporary name. I can't remember if I've actually called her it
before now. Are you content, Constance?
And
I can see her now, smoothing down the creases in her light green tank top,
low-cut but I'm just about keeping at the level of her eyes. She's got black
hair now, punk style and surprisingly high-maintenance. There's no loose locks,
nothing for me to brush away. She tries to say something but all I can hear is
breathing. None of her stock phrases apply to this situation. I can't find the
words for her to say.
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