I, She, We and the Ritual of Mating

in #lifelast year

A bra was on the floor. A necklace was still on a neck, but misplaced there by looking too fancy for the current state of affairs. Mascara was a little smeared down under the eyes as though in sympathy of the haphazardness of that bra on the floor. The mixture of the smell of salt and fading perfume still clung affectionately around her throat, slow to fade, always the last to go home. I watched.

I watched from start to close.

Naturally, Let’s Begin With the Start


Shit, I’m late. I heard this from the adjacent closet. As though one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters was within that closet, I observed the flash of flying fabric ejected out the door as dress after the next became discarded. Then she made her wobbly appearance, hopping about on one foot as the heels found their places onto feet. In a whirlwind of flying hair and skirt, the face appeared leaning forward over the sink.

I knew she was coming, because of the ritual. A night out always requires a ritual.

The ritual has slick blackness that elongates and stiffens, the sparkling dust that turns paleness into a passionate color, and the smear of red that makes things that talk look more like things that kiss. I looked on at that elaborate ritual—the animalistic nature of becoming attractive to the opposite sex—and like a relativist, I didn’t judge.

The start was over then as the brush ran through the hair, and then was tossed down onto the counter, clattering as it slid into the sink. If I stayed it would be just me and the brush then. A brush is not much company, so I slipped out. The grand finale would be soon enough, when a few hours chimed away on the grandfather clock.

And Like Clockwork, There She Was

She was standing before me once more, leaning over the sink. She cast a scornful look at the already disposed of bra on the floor, as though she said to herself that damn thing. Then I caught a glimpse of the mascara shadow beneath her eyes. A foreign hair was clinging to her shirt.

That vague smell of salt and faded perfume triggered sensory memories. They were the sound of shoes against bricks lining an old alleyway. A sheen was on those bricks in the distance, where the full moon had fallen down onto them. The full moon was many places, like keeping company with the sailboats, or peeking through the trees in silence as the church bells rang for ten o’clock.


A bigger hand was enveloping hers. The fingers were intertwining, forming a certain connectedness between her and him—something that a cold outsider such as myself would see as another animalistic action toward mating, but I’ll assume it was all very romantic. Then there were the soft sheets, the jagged body movements, the pillows twisted and mushed. It was all very animalistic, but humans are animals, after all.

I, However, Am Not

I belong to a bit of glass hanging above a sink. I know all the goings on, but from the safe distance of impartiality. I am nothing more than the image of a woman with smeared makeup and suspiciously disheveled hair. But my distance is lovely: I see all the beauty and the ugly, with a special focus on the last eight years.

But maybe, just maybe,I am actually a we. Maybe she and I are one, embracing each other's alternate perspectives. And maybe I, a weary reflection, could abandon the cold mirror for tonight and hitch a ride with her, so that we can curl up next to that man with the larger hands.

We locked eyes in the mirror as we spoke in unison.

“Eight years of marriage is certainly something worth putting on lipstick for.”


Dem shoes again...


A measly 19%...22, max.

P.S. I just wrote this in a semi-sleep state, nodding off every other paragraph. I hit post, got up to get a drink of water, now I'm wide awake and you've got me wondering just what in the hell I wrote. Maybe I should re-read it. Nah, I don't think so ;)

Hmm, I'm not convinced but you're legit so I have no reason to believe you're lying...I would have thought 30+ to be more accurate, however I'll roll with your measly 19%.

EDIT: You should sleep-write more.

We probably need to establish a clear rating system. My present system is based around something like this: Did I feel like writing this? Yes? Then it must be under 20. I would never do otherwise. I have so much faith in my harmlessness :)

Oh yeah, you're harmless. Maybe you better email the rating system to me so it's not indelibly left on the blockchain...🤗

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Maybe I will do that...


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interesting, I guess you never know where you will end up when sleep writing. At least this didn't end up in front of the refrigerator eating a gallon of ice cream LOL

It might have been a good thing if I had - the coldness would have woken me up and then I would have checked my writing before hitting "post." Nah, I wouldn't have changed it anyway. I stand by my writing...even if it is sleep writing ;)

I like the last line very much, sets it all off!

Thanks for reading my crazy rambles :)

Tis always a pleasure, the crazier the better! Mostly ;0)

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Thank you!

It certainly is !

Love the fun way you have with words.

I need more of them !

Hope you are doing well.

Thanks so much for reading. Hope you are doing well also.

Brilliant writing once again ginnyannette, you had me wondering what in the world is she talking about? I do that alot but this was particularly clever!

You mean you can't read my mind? How disappointing. I need more mindreaders around here. It would make writing so much easier, but probably less fun :)

Haha! Just keep doing what you're doing and I'll try to figure it out!

Ahh @ginnyannette how the years go by but we never seem to forget those early single days getting ready for a date or a night out. Happy wedding anniversary.

Thank you. The years do seem to flutter by.

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