Courtship

They circle each other, he strutting and showing his impressive plumage, his eyes, strong broad chest and his Rolex, while she plays the coy game, giving him just enough rope to hang himself, hiding behind her locks of hair, while still showing him enough signals to keep him interested, flashing him a wrist, for instance, as she smokes her cigarette.

Their squeaks and warbles fill the air, barely audible over the tones of the synthesized sounds that give them a shield of misunderstanding and miscomprehension to hide behind, in case either of them is only physically interesting.

The sounds are just cover anyway, while the courtship dance takes place. How ever much they might think otherwise, it often doesn’t really matter what is said, or whose names are remembered. It is more about the steps in their intuitive chess game, played on the board of their bodies, with its set moves and rules, unwritten but still set in stone.

And I’m so tired of it, these games, these puzzles, these tests. Why does it always have to be the same game? Why does it always have to be the same steps? Why can’t it just be different for once?

It must be possible to sidestep the normal sequence of events and – through one action, one question or one thought – send that encounter spinning in a completely new direction, where it might be out of control, but also more intriguing.

It must he possible to do it all differently. There must be a way to be of greater value to each other. I pray that I find it, because otherwise I must either stick to the steps of the courtship dance, or not dance all together. I actually do like dancing, but I just prefer my own tune.