the sequel to the sequel
The Mother of My Children has been supplanted. Suddenly and in the most unceremonious manner, the woman who once ruled my heart has now been thrown out. The baton with which she conducted the symphony of my affection has been snapped in two, and now she lurks quietly on the fringes of my mind. Now she watches with disbelieving eyes as another woman dances her way into my heart, smiling and blushing me into confusion. And yet, even then, her beauty is still an open flame demanding notice; she is still so utterly gorgeous it is painful to look away from her.
Her government has been overthrown, but before that the mother of my children made further inroads into my mind. It was only the other week that I made the startling discovery that she knew my name. That, and she had taken to flashing a perfect smile at me whenever we came face to face. I had reduced my stuttering in her presence to a bare minimum, I had finally gained control of my voice so that it no longer slipped into a squeaky soprano when I spoke to her, and it was getting easier to remember how to breathe when she wore tiny clothes and walked with that careless abandon that promised spectators a momentary glimpse of skin. In my estimation, it would have taken at least another two months, and then we would be making wedding arrangements.
I swear I did not see her coming.
The other woman appeared like a dark cloud dripping with evil intent. I saw her, as I had seen her several times before, and for the first time I was completely aware of her. She sashayed past me in class, as she had done countless times before, yet today I noticed everything about her, from the coiffed hair to the ridiculously high heels. Today, for reasons completely beyond my grasp, she flashed an unintentional half smile as she floated past me, and I felt the gentlest stirring in regions that shall remain unnamed. It was almost as if I was seeing her for the first time; like the perception I had held before was flawed and warped.
The other woman is like a well written poem. She is that poem written in free verse, whose appeal is not realized until it is read again, and then its flawlessness is almost unreal. Now that my eyes are open, I see that hers is a calm, quietly potent beauty. It is easy to understand how I dismissed her before. Her eyes are not the stuff of legend, but they are dark and brooding. Her smile is not blinding, but it is unforgettable. Her skin is like a silk canvas; it is a dark shade of perfect that glows with invitation. The subject of her breasts is best left unaddressed, because no words could possibly describe them. I strongly suspect they are responsible for the aforementioned stirring in regions unnamed. She has subtle, shy curves that descend into a pair of astonishing legs. And when she walks, all the wind blows and the angels sing.
The mother of my children is lovely beyond compare; the other woman stuns in small ways. My long term love has managed to capture and maintain a fierce grip on my heart for almost a year; the usurper has staged a daring takeover that has left me completely at her mercy. They wage a silent war, and my heart quakes with the deafening echoes of indecision. A lesser mortal would call this a dilemma. But is it really? Can a heart be so weak? Is it that mine was an infatuation that has been dealt a fatal blow? Was it not love, when I saw and worshipped the pebbles she trod on? Is her image not burned into my brain, her name branded on my heart? Are our fates not intertwined? Shall we not gift the world with lovely, brilliant children?
The other woman…that gorgeous intrusion… I resent her with a passion. I hate the way she walks, that she rarely says anything and is at the same time saying everything with minimal, fleeting gestures; I hate that she dresses deliberately, exquisitely, with apparent ease. I hate that she can dictate my mood with one casual glance, or an unintentional smile. I hate the fragrant cloud that surrounds her…I hate the assured walk, that gracefully awkward cross between strutting and staggering… I hate… I hate… the air she breathes, the light that falls on her… God, I resent that woman. She did look delectable yesterday, though. I have never seen anyone pull off that look before. And she does swing her bottom in the most captivating manner. Ah, yes, resentment. I resent the damn woman, for the ease with which she has turned me into a pliant lump of clay.
The mother of my children, for whom songs have been sung and sleep forfeited, has been replaced. She of the legendary beauty, she of the endless charm, is no longer the lead singer of the band. She is now an unwilling participant in the cage match for my love. But because she is the defending champion, and also since her opponent is a tad bigger, she will be extended the honour of throwing the first punch.
I suppose this is the part where I make a choice. There is a loaded gun squeezed onto my temple, and the hand that holds it trembles with anticipation. It is actually very simple. Shall I go with tiny, dainty little fingers, or with long, elegant ones? Is it the long, shapely legs that drive me insane, or the shorter ones topped by velvety thighs? Will it be the perky boobs I go for, or the perkier ones? Who terrifies me the most? Indeed, is it the long term affection that will shine through, or do sudden, random attractions have deeper impacts? Perhaps I shall ask them both to list the Paramore albums and pick the one who doesn’t reach for her phone.
Or perhaps it was never really a question of choice. Perhaps I know, as I have known for a while now, who I will go with. The mental process may even have been unnecessary. I will go with the woman whose beauty strikes me the most, whose attentions would mean the most to me. She exists, undisturbed, as a constant in my thoughts, a bright spot in the dark recesses of my mind. I have loved her… I love her, in the gentlest ways, with the deepest conviction, and for the strangest reasons. She is my song, my chorus; she is the last thought that flies through my mind before I sleep, the melody that dictates my life. She is the woman I will tell stories about to my children. She is…