Full of words but no sound
She was the “guilt-free” technician of mending broken hearts. She played the “love em and leave em” game ever since puberty fell on her doorstep, but all was not lost on her cold and empty heart. Her blood did run warm after all. She knew how to grab the attention of the needy and broken-hearted without having to give too much of herself. She was good at it, even if that was all she was good at. She could write the most beautiful words in the world, words so incredible and sentimental that the most macho of men would shed a tear or too by the end. Words flew freely within the depths of her mind. Thanks to the many books she read on long nights and to the many song lyrics she read while trying to ‘live’ in her lonely apartment. She was better at writing than talking. Her tongue always had a way of tangling up any meaning of truth.
Perhaps that was why she never stayed longer than she had to.
It wasn’t that she was afraid. Fear did not take up residency in her life. It wasn’t that she was bitter like other scorned women in her time or before. She had nothing to be bitter about. There was never enough time to figure out bitterness. No, it wasn’t about the usual, the ordinary excuses, the boring reasons. The truth was she could never get out what she wanted to say. When she’d try beginning a conversation she would fall flat on her face while staring at the bewildered facial expression of the guy in front of her. She was never a good conversationalist. She spoke too quickly which sometimes led to stuttering, she rambled, she hated her voice.
So she drank, and heavily at that, and said very little to soften cupid’s blow (from mystery mans end) and in 15 minutes or less they were in bed (whose ever was closest) and it was enough for her. As you may have noticed, she found most of her one-night-stands in a bar- no conversation can be heard over loud bar music and crowd conversation. And when it was all said and done, there was no time for snuggling, for small talk. But she wasn’t rude either. She’d walk out to her balcony, draped in only a sheet, and stare out into the darkness while her man of the hour slept. If it happened to be ‘his’ place, she’d slowly dress, look out the bedroom window or sometimes sprawl out on the bed while listening to his praises of her attractiveness, her sexual bed manners. And if he left his number she wouldn’t throw it away, but she wouldn’t call him. Instead, she’d send crafty text messages; words she would give anything to be able to say in person. Once in a while an exchange of e-mails would be made. It was then and only then that she would feel luck crawling her way. A written relationship just might work. If he could just enjoy reading and not ask so many questions in person… but it never failed, they want to talk in the end. They wanted to know the whole life story, they wanted to know why and when and how, like a toddler learning the ropes of life.
You would think that these men, these lucky pinch hitters of the night would be grateful to be in the presence of a woman who hardly said a word, who didn’t go in with commitment on her mind. But you would be surprised at how easily men become wounded, like a scolded puppy. Could it be that their egos have been crushed? Is it different when the shoe is on the other foot? In the end they always send begging, eager responses to her text messages. “Was it me?” “Did I say something wrong?” and occasionally the sullen “Why do you have to be such a bitch?” If they only knew, would they care? Would they try to justify the minor handicap that hinders being social? Would they welcome it with open arms? She would never know.
She has dreaded public speaking since grade school. All eyes on her, all ears focused on the sound of her voice. The sound of a boy playing the part of a girl in a play. That’s how she sounded in her head. Her words were never beautiful when said out loud, void of all meaning and sentiment. She thought of getting help, but this way just seemed easier; best even. Why change a good thing? She would never give a child her horrible voice, she would never have to recite wedding vows and she’d never have to meet ‘his’ family. It was for the best.
It was easy if the one night stand was just that, but loneliness was never simple. She longed for love some days, when the weather was grey or the snow was heavy. She ached for another heart to beat close to hers. It was never painless on cold nights when the comforter was never enough. It became a sacrifice. Give up in order to be.
If the sexual relationship was bordering on serious, she would walk away first, leaving behind the most artistic, moving letter anyone could ever compose. Words she would love to drip from her lips, words that would leave a soft caring tone like a fine tuned melody. But for now it would just be words on paper; meaningful and beautiful, but just words in the end.