Pop! Six. Squish! Uh-Uh. Cicero. Lipschitz.
He had it coming.
The Tango begins suddenly and continues until someone surrenders or defeats the other. My favorite part of the Tango is being so close to the other person that you can feel them breathe. Your partner inhales and it forces you to consider your own breath. It is like that in relationships. Mr. Loves Being Loved inhales and I realize I need air. Mr. LBL exhales and I need a release. Somehow we are always juxtaposed to each other instead of being in tandem. Two people in tandem only happens in the beginning, before you realize they are flawed. For me, that interlude of ignorance is the only time I will be inspired to work hard enough to be a real team. I know it sounds so very wrong, but that is the beauty of truth: sometimes, it ain’t pretty. Don’t you remember in the beginning of a relationship how you pretend to merge your interests? “I love football! Of course we can watch 5 games today and I will cook for all of your friends! No, I just love having all you gaseous men messing up my house and drinking all my imports. Wuv you too, snookum wookums!” 6 months later and it’s: “Hell to the naw you are not inviting those jerks over to drink all my Hefeweizen!”
Oh joy. The Tango of Love is a dance that often ends in injury. I am not sure what to do about this dance. I am kinda sure he doesn’t want me, but I am really sure he doesn’t want anyone else to have me. I wonder what Mrs. Loves Being loved would say about all this? Would she say that he is a pain in the ass and don’t make the mistake of being with him? Sometimes, people save their best dances for strangers or acquaintances while stepping on the toes of the ones they love. Sometimes a Tango ends in burning fury and flames.
He only has himself to blame.