i’m not sure what this is

i thought about
you
when i woke up
it filled
me
with mild
far away
guilt
i guess
for reasons that
elude
but
i’m sure
made sense
at some point
it faded
i thought
about you
some more
my lips
your stomach
your nails
my back
i want to send
you
a song
now
my tongue
circling
your hip bone
your hands
my hair
you can’t choose
who excites you
can you
can
you
that look
your eyes
my fingers
my keyboard
you told me
once
you want to know
when i think
about
you
you told me
that
is
what this
is
you know
my teeth
my eyes
almost mad
at goosebumps
marring your chest
your back
you’re back
in
i’ll think about you
before I go
to sleep tonight
stop smiling
only
if only
to
make me
think about you
when i
wake up
again

my friends called today, down from l.a.

just some night
out with friends
mine
yours
ours
who knows
some bar
trying too hard
to be dive
it’s not
it’s fine
you excuse yourself
for a minute
someone steals
your seat
i start
to protest
but figure
i’ll just
give you
mine
you return
3.4 inane conversations later
finally
without missing a beat
you sit
on my lap
i say something
that sounds like
smmmchheeha
you wiggle
get comfy
lean back
and place a
hi
gently
in my ear
bryan adams’
heaven
plays in my head
though
hidden speakers blare
motley crue’s
girl don’t go away mad
you know
just go away
but don’t
ever
someone says something
to me
maybe
you say
oh!
and start talking
fast
i’m
trying to follow
your story
but staring
and staring
at your lips
you reach
the punchline
everyone laughs
you bask
lean back
play with my hair
i forget how
to do long division
your glass is empty
you sip from mine
you
excitedly
turn to see
a squabbling couple
behind us
your dark hair
velcroes to
my stubble
i
suddenly
understand
art
you rest your head
against mine
i’m tiiiired
you half-whisper
wanna get out of here
i realize
without a doubt
my entire life
has been a prelude to
this
moment
you turn to me
waiting
eye brows raised
lower lip bitten
i look into those
eyes
that melt me
everyfuckingtime
take a deep breath and say
smmmchheeha

maybe i should open a bowling alley, future wife

Hey, you.

Did you think I’d go all week without saying “hi” to you?

Silly.

So I was e-mailchatting with a friend yesterday.

We somehow got on the topic of the show “Ed” from a few years back.  (Ack.  A decade ago??)

We talked about the “I’ll give you a $1″ bets from the show.

We debated Julie Bowen (or her characters?)  Cold vs flawed and real.

And then, of course, we got around to…

Grand romantic gestures.

We agreed that we are both huge fans of the way the “Ed” character shamelessly pursued Julie Bowen’s “Carol” character.

He just knew.

She was the one.

It may not surprise you, FW, that a dude writing letters to a Future Wife would be a fan of such things.

We also debated (a little) boys making grand dramatic gestures vs girls doing it.  She thought it was only charming when boys did it.  I disagreed.  If you want to don a suit of armor and profess your love to me, I’d be cool with that.  (Wear something underneath, armor causes rashes.)

I very much dig the whole “I like you and I think you’ll like me, so I’m just going to have to convince you that we should be together” vibe.  (aka The Stalker’s Creed.)

It’s those… moments.

You know?

The background fades away.

It all hinges on yes or no.

The excruciating wait.

The moment where anything is still possible, and when you are mere seconds away from potentially getting everything you’ve ever wanted.

Yeah, I’m gonna want to come up with the perfect marriage proposal for you.

No.  PERFECT.

Perfect

And, really, it’s only a little about the setting, for me.

It’s the words.

I want to come up with the words that will take a great moment and make it completely… magical.

The words that will make your breath catch in your throat.

The words that will make the things that you sometimes struggle to say simply tumble out of your pretty mouth.

The words that will vanquish every doubt… pump up every dream… and make you KNOW that everything is going to be okay.

Always.

And, yeah, the words that, when re-told, will make your friends swoon to your face, while hating on you a little behind your back.

I’m like that.  It’s part of my charm.

It is.

I guess what I’m saying is that, when I meet you, you better prepare yourself.

Because, lady, sometimes “I fucking love you and that’s that” is just how it’s going to be.

Love,
Peter

she is just doing it

school’s been over
for her
for a while
but still
still she gets that feeling
every year
at this time
sadness that the summer
is ending
and not yet
feeling the
excitement
of new beginnings
of possibilities
of wearing her scarves more often
and
the wind
whips at her hair
jealous of it
probably
but she knew
that
car windows down
equals
a ponytail
that helped her
wrest control
of the music
with
a smile
with
accidentally tanned legs
showed off
with a well-placed
foot on the dash
but
he would have given it
to her anyway
really
after the “fight”
after the “pain in the ass”
’cause
he loves her
she knows
he knows
she picks
california dreaming
’cause
that song
more than any other
captures her feeling
of
still vaguely content ennui
all the leaves are brown
a sad face
and the sky is gray
searching the horizon
for the sunshine she knows is coming
“that store you love
is a half hour from here”
he offers
matter of factly
she told him about
that store
that her parents took her to
as a kid
months ago
in passing
while he was
watching football
and
her parents played the mamas and papas
on road trips when she was little
she watches the faded
antenna ribbon
flapping in the stiff breeze
she loves him
he knows
she kisses his cheek
and again
and…
unzip
well, i got down on my knees
she isn’t doing it to be in control
this time
she is just…
doing it
she looks up
she loves
loves
loves
watching him
try to stay focused
on the road
she turns up the intensity
he turns off the highway
onto a small dirt road
he puts the car in park
he puts his hands
in her hair
he puts his hands
behind his own head
he puts his hands
on the steering wheel
he puts his hands
back
in her hair
she stops
teasingly
“still think i’m
a pain in th–”
in one motion
he is out his door
pulling her by the arm
behind him
he pushes her
up against the car
back to him
skirt
up
underwear
gone
almost
angry
cars whipping by
not far away
rustling in bushes
even closer
hair pulled
teeth marks left
and so
on
and
on
and
on
passionate
rough
perfect
he collapses
leaning on her
leaning on the car
“i love you”
“i know”

I think I’m going to reply with “GRRRR.”

A little while ago, I was lying on my comfy, comfy bed. Very cozy. Trying to come up with a word doodle.

My phone made it’s textynoise.

It was The Monkey.

“Can you bring me my ipod because you love me so much!!!!!!”

So I did.

But first I texted back “LAZY.”

And it is fucking cold out.

Seriously.

I’m generally impervious to cold. Just now tested that theory.

I got there and passed her the ipod. She checked to make sure the Jay-Z song she wanted was on it.

I was getting ready to leave — after a little fight about whether or not she said “Thanks” — and told her if I had known how cold it was, she’d still be waiting for it.

I just got back home and my phone rang again. Another text from her.

“I know. I will admit it! I knew it was cold too and didn’t want to go out and freeze my butt off! So really I am the smart one!!!”

it’s possible that i’ve given this some thought

“Our legs are touching.  Our legs.  Touching.  The light from the screen illuminates your eyes.  Off and on.  Even in night scenes.  Maybe it dances in the eyes of other people there too.  But I doubt it.  Not like this.  Not nearly like this.  I try to pretend that I’m not staring.  Well I try to try.  My inner debate about timing and right moves and such horseshit resolves, and I gently take your hand.  I hear your breath catch.  I wonder if it is good or bad.  You squeeze my hand.  I smile.  I’m holding your hand.  This is your hand in mine.  The hair on my neck stands up.  I try not to twitch.  I feel guilty — well, almost — about all the months of work put in by writers and directors and set designers and actors and make-up people and… everyone.  I feel guilty because I don’t have a clue about what is happening on that screen.  You do this thing…  Maybe on purpose.  I’m not sure.  You do this thing where you take your soft lower lip between your thumb and forefinger and give it the slightest little tug.  Then you let it go.  I am, without a doubt, completely transfixed.  I’m already thinking ahead to writing about this.  I am wondering how I am going to accurately explain the tangible feeling of being in your presence.  It’s like your very essence is hugging me.  Excitedly.  I hope I explain it better than that later.  You lean in to me.  You whisper, ‘I like her… in that thing…’  I don’t know who ‘her’ is.  Or what ‘that thing’ might be.  If your warm, sweet breath in my ear isn’t enough to cause me to jump from my seat and drag you off to someplace more private…  I…  Here’s the thing:  This is going to sound pervy, but your breast on my arm…  I know.  I know.  But the way it felt.  Come on.  I don’t really know what to do with myself.  I lean in to your perfect ear.  I lean in and whisper.  ‘I like you.’  No sooner are the words out than an icy shock runs through my body.  That’s what I decided to say?  Right now?  I AM COOLER THAN THIS.  Manly.  In control.  Sonofabitch.  You turn towards me.  Expressionless.  Gorgeous eyes staring at me.  Through me.  A smile forms.  THAT smile.  Sun shines on the screen.  Your eyes dwarf it.  You put your forehead against my shoulder.  You let out a little exhale.  I put my lips on the top of your head.  I kind of forget to kiss.  I just leave them there in delirious numbness.  You turn back towards the screen, but leave your head on my shoulder.  I snuggle in even closer to you.  ‘Don’t you like her better in the thing?’ you whisper.  ‘Yeah.  I fucking love her.’   Yeah…  I mean…  That’s how I see it playing out.  What do you think?”

borrowing all the hours that you gave to me

She rolls her eyes at the flickering lights from the 42″ LCD TV in the otherwise dark bedroom.  She reaches for her iPhone.

She checks her gmail.  “You emailed me after I fell asleep?  You’re very cute.”

“Yup.  I know.”

He rolls over and spoons her.  She lets out a sweet little moansigh.

He buries his nose in the back of her neck.  It tickles.  She does that thing she does, where she scrunches her neck down and her shoulders go up.

He gently rubs down the outside of her arm.

“I’m checking work email now, you.”

“That’s super,” he whispers in her ear.

He traces her tattoo.  Lovingly.

“Change your mind about tattoos on women?” she asks.

“Ehhh.  Not really.  But you could put a picture of Hitler on this skin and it would still be delicious.”

“Funny.  That was my second choice.”

He takes the iPhone from her hands.

“But, I–”

“Shhhhh,” he shhhhhs.  “Little spoons are supposed to be quieter.”

He goes to put her iPhone on the bedside table, but takes a closer look at it.

“Do you have Brick Breaker on this thing?” he asks.

“I thought you wanted me to pay attention to you.”

She turns her head and kisses him.  Softly.  Sweetly.  Full of hints at so much more.

“Oh!” she exclaims.  “Want to see the pictures from my office party?”

“You know, that is exactly what I want right now.”

“Shut up.”

She excitedly smushes her cheek against his and starts showing him photos.

“That’s Steve, the new guy.”

“The guy with the crush on you?”

“He doesn’t have a crush on me.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Awwww.  Is someone jealous and possessive?” she asks.

“Is this your first time meeting me?”

“I kinda love it.”

“Well, sure.  It’s great for you.  You get flattered.  I get an ulcer.”

She slides down the bed and gives him a long, soft kiss on his stomach.

“That help?” she asks.

He nods.

“Good!”  She slides back up him until they are face to face again.

“I’m still… a bit ulcery, I think.”

“Oh, look.  I redecorated my office yesterday.”

He takes the iPhone from her hands.  He stealthily takes a picture of her.

“I look terrible,” she pulls the sheet over her face.

“Absolutely never.”

“Stop,” she whispers.

“No.”

He pulls the sheets down a little.

“Make that face I love.”

“What face?” she asks.

“You know.”

She does.

She shakes her head.  Then she lightly bites her lower lip and does that thing with her eyes.  She makes them look all hopeful and wondrous and shy and sexy and…

He melts.

Completely.

But he manages to take a picture.

He pulls the sheet down to her hips.  He pulls the bottom of her white tank top up to mid-stomach level.

He takes another picture.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks.

He pulls the sheets down completely.  He turns her on her side a little, so her lacy black boy shorts are more visible.  He bends one of her legs.

He takes a picture.

“Having fun?” she asks.  In a whisper.

He pulls her tank top up and off.  She doesn’t fight it.  He puts the corner of the sheet across her breasts. Just so that they are barely covered.

He takes a picture.

She stares at him.

He slides his hands up her smooth legs.  He takes her underwear and pulls them down.

Slowly, but decisively.

She moans.  A little.  She tries to hide it.

It doesn’t work.

He covers what needs covering with a bit more of the sheet.

He takes another pic.

He kisses her.  She kisses back.  Hungrily.

He breaks the kiss.  He pulls her up and then turns her over.

“No,” she almost protests.

He positions her so that she is on her stomach, with her knees bent and feet in the air.  Nothing is really visible.

Except for her perfect ass.

That he caresses for a few moments.

He takes another picture.

“One more,” he says.

She rolls over on her back.  She moves the sheets away.  She leaves her arms at her sides.

She stares at him.

He takes a picture.

She sits up.  She takes his boxers and slides them off.

Slowly, but decisively.

She pushes him down on his back.

She climbs on top of him.

“What are you going to do with these photos?” she asks.

“I don’t know…  screensaver for my computer at work?”

She hits him on the arm.  Hard.  “I’m going to kick your ass.  I hate you.”

“I love you.”

She gasps.  A little.

She leans down and kisses him.  Passionately.

Her hair falls in his face.

rambling about music and junk, future wife

Hiiiiiiiii, you.

So, I love music.  I do.  I listen to it all day long.

And sometimes (often) I get the overwhelming urge to share this music.  As my friends, who some days get a half dozen invitations to download shit from dropbox, can attest to.

I want someone who doesn’t mind random songs appearing in her inbox throughout the day.  Someone who doesn’t need an explanation as to why each song is awesome.

Someone who just loves that a certain song made me think of her.

You know?

Like if it’s 2:45 pm on a rainy Wednesday and I feel that you absolutely NEED to hear Paul Westerberg’s “Waiting For Somebody,” I want to be able to just send it over to you.

But here’s the thing:

I want you to love it too.

And I’ll be completely confused if you don’t.

Actually this is more of a general thing with me.  I was telling a friend last night that I am kind of demanding.  (In a “sure you adore me, but do you adore me enough?” kind of way.)

I’ll expect you to be excited by what excites me.

Completely unreasonable?

Absolutely.

I won’t be angry if you aren’t, I’ll just be… baffled.

My demandingness comes out in other ways too.  For example, if I like you, I’ll do anything for you.

Period.

But if I ask you to do something and you don’t…

It’s like a personal affront.

Largely because I hate asking anyone for anything at any time.

Also if you tell me you are going to do something and then don’t…

Bad bananas.

And I’ll still remember it seven years later.

It’s not all word doodles and Canadian charm, my lovely little future wife.

On the plus side, things are very unlikely to escalate into a fight.

I don’t really fight.

In fact I am pretty decent at defusing most couple-y disagreements.

I’ll listen — really listen — to your side.  I’ll explain my side calmly and without using words or phrases that might exacerbate the situation.  (“Sure I was looking at your friend’s ass, but it’s a great ass!”) I’ll give you space.  I’ll use humour.

And I’ll still always hug you, even if I’m mad.

Promise.

But, really, you might as well just love “Waiting for Somebody.”  It’ll be easier on all of us.

Love,
Peter

- ps  I decided to make you a mix CD, FW.  I wanted to call it “A Present of Songs from the Past for Future Wife.”  But then realized that some of the songs are current.  And that the title sucks.  Instead I am calling it “Lady Gaga’s Vagina: War Criminal or No?”  Yes I am.  And it’s not really a CD.  You can download it from dropbox.  E-mail me for an invite.  (Same goes for the rest of you nosypantses reading this letter that isn’t addressed to you.)

another night, another dream

She pushes herself to climb the steps between the first and second floor of her favourite bar.

She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the wall of mirrors. She ignores the blurry backdrop that is a rippling mass of cleavage and Axe body spray and lies and bad decisions happening on the dance floor. She ignores the soulless, seemingly never-ending bass-overwhelmed musique du jour.

She looks at herself more closely.

It could partially be the lighting, but she looks…

Hot.

She gives herself a satisfied nod.

She picked the right outfit. Sexy top. Favourite jeans. She once told a friend that she figured that her ass owed these jeans money for making it look so good.

Hair. Eye make-up. Cute earrings.

For a girl who wasn’t sure she wanted to go out, she kinda nailed it.

She spots her friends. The girls are, as always, surrounded by guys.

She puts her game face on and enters the fray.

Her friends laugh and hug. And smile for drinks. And some act dumber than they are. And some don’t. And some act more interested in the guy than they are. And some won’t.

She’s not there. Not fully.

It’s been a long day. Week. Year.

She sips her same drink.

She tries to fake a smile, but it is not in her.

Not right now.

She’s not in a bad mood. Not really. She’s just…

Not feeling it.

Her friends are. And normally she’d be in the middle. Of all of it.

Her friends are beautiful. And they are smart, accomplished women. But, for whatever reason, she noticed — and kept it very much to herself — that she always gets the most attention from men when they go out together.

A male friend, who knows them all, once told her that she has “an amazing presence” and a “certain special spark” that her friends, while beautiful, lack.

She didn’t fully believe what he said.

But she didn’t forget it either.

She never feels as beautiful as men tell her she is.

She never feels as beautiful as she “jokingly” tells people she is either.

She’ll tell you she only exercises sporadically.

She can tell you seven things she doesn’t love about her face. Thirty seven things about her body.

She can tell you that.

But she won’t. Not unless she really knows you.

Actually, more importantly, if you really know her.

And you don’t.

She pounds a couple of drinks.

They make her feel warmer.

But that’s it, really.

As the night goes on, it gets a little fuzzier.

Ed Hardy shirt tells her about his car.

Long hair tells her about his band.

Suit tells her about his new condo.

She knows the game all too well.

She’s played at a hall of fame level.

Biting her lower lip gets her a drink.

Rubbing an arm gets her a double.

Really being… her gets her proposals.

As the evening winds down, it becomes clear that Suit is the most interested.

Or competitive.

He leans in closer than necessary to talk.

His hand lingers longer than necessary to get her attention.

His obsession with wealth turns her off.

His confidence… doesn’t.

She really wants closeness tonight.

“So… wanna see my condo?” he smiles as if a positive reply is an absolute certainty.

**********

She walks into the bedroom.

The jeans and top are gone.

The hair is down.

She stops in front of the full-length mirror.

The bra and underwear don’t match.  They compliment one another. In a cutesexy mutual admiration society kind of way.

She tilts her head a little sideways.

She still looks hot, she thinks.

Hotter probably.

She turns towards the bed and exhales. Long. Slow.

Then she takes two steps and jumps…

Into her empty bed.

She notices how chilly it is in her room and quickly climbs under the covers.

She stares at the ceiling.

She reaches out and grabs her phone from her night stand.

She hesitates.

She scrolls through her contacts.  She stops.  She hits the little picture of a phone.

She closes her eyes.

“Hello…” a sleepy male voice answers.

“Hi. Is this OK?”

“Hiiii. Of course.”

“Were you sleeping?”

“A little.”

“Time difference! So sorry. We can talk another time.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, very quietly.

“Tell me about your day.”

She smiles and pulls her covers up to her chin.

i want to hear, future wife

Hi hi.

Did you like your word doodle the other day?

Last night I was watching an episode of Nigella Bites… because my remote batteries crapped out while I was trying to find a Bare Knuckle Boxing and Spitting For Distance tournament?

Anyway, while I was snuggling up inside of her voice, I wondered what you might sound like.

I guess your accent will depend on which mail order bride company has the best deal that month.

But, really, what will your voice sound like?

I expect you’ll have one of those voices that gets super enthusiastic and loud about things. Like I’ll be able to tell what your facial expression is just from hearing you, you know? I’ll be able to hear your eyes getting wider with excitement.

I love that.

And when your voice gets soft and little, I’ll know you need me.

I want to hear how you say my name… in various instances. I want to be able to tell that it is your favourite thing to say. And that it spills out over your lovely lips so damn naturally because you’ve been annoying your friends by saying it to them all the time.

I want to know for sure, what I suspect, that when you say certain, amazing things to me, it’ll make me crush so hard that I’ll have to regain my composure before asking you to say them again.

I want you to say those things in a whisper. At first.

I want to hear you sing. And maybe you suck at it. Though I’d never, ever admit it. I just want the urge to sing to be so strong that you don’t really care what you sound like. In the shower. In the car. In Target.

And I want to hear you laugh. I know it will be the kind of laugh that explodes from you, and ensures that on the off chance that any eyes in the room weren’t already on you, they are now.

A couple of people have mentioned to me that I should have something of a Future Wife Competition on this blog. Like a reality show type deal. I even had some ideas about a few different “contests” that could probably be very amusing.

But I feel like you’re the type of woman who would laugh and say, in an absolutely charming way, with a smile that sucks me so completely in…

“I don’t compete, Peter. I get.”

I really want to hear that.

Love,
Peter